


The Inverse Lightning Bolt

by Darkfromday



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bisexual Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Master of Death Harry Potter, Multi, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley AND Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, References to Depression, Strangers to Lovers Speedrun, Time Travel, War with Grindelwald, past Harry Potter/Neville Longbottom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkfromday/pseuds/Darkfromday
Summary: Harry Potter's life holds two truths: it revolves around missions and quests, and it never stays simple or happy for long. When he throws himself 83 years into the past to stop a new enemy from bringing back an old one, both those truths hold—despite the best efforts of strange homeless Squibs, far too many kids, a long-dead mentor and an impressively tyrannical Dark Lord du jour.





	1. The Forest and The Portal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...... it was time.

_10 April 1925_

_Hallerbos Forest_

_Halle, Belgium_

_All is well_, the bluebell flowers whispered.

It was early evening; a curtain of darkness had only just fallen over the forest, following behind its sinking brother, the sun. Most of the birds and animals had burrowed down in dens and curled up in trees to await the next morning, paying little mind to the shouts and flashes of light deeper in the trees. And so the blooms were left alone to pass quiet messages about the events of the day—which new buds had flowered, which trees were defiled by territorial werewolves, which flowers had been crushed underfoot by the boots of men.

Bluebell flowers could not 'feel' the way the trees or animals could, though they too had become soaked over time with the supernatural powers of all the beings that had ever passed through Hallerbos, and so were not _quite_ ordinary anymore. Still—it only made sense that when the first abnormally warm wind blew through the forest, the trees shivered and the animals cringed before the flowers registered any trouble.

A second gust of warm wind propelled itself through the forest, shaking some of the sturdier, younger trees still standing after the boots of German Muggles had swept through and taken the Older Ones away. With this new heat came the sound of crackling power, like a lightning bolt impendent. It startled a trio of hares hiding nearby, sending them bounding off in three different directions, unlikely to meet up again for some time.

The phenomenon was so strange that it prodded the beeches and the bluebells into talking _to each other_ in their own limited way, rather than simply among themselves.

_A storm?_

_Not a storm._

_But the wind—_

_There is no rain, no life-water, no thunder. Only the wind._

_The wind is warm but the light is gone._

_Too warm._

_Came from nowhere._

_This is no storm._

The heat and the crackle in the air built, reminiscent of ozone, lending strength to the unease rippling through Hallerbos' flora and fauna. A blue mist formed in a clearing near the forest's edge, wisps of magic which curled and swirled faster and faster.

Just before all hell broke loose, the bluebell flowers had time to quake, and whisper, _All is no longer well_.

Then the heat and the crackles of lightning-that-was-not-lightning and the blue wisps of magic all merged together with a loud _CRACK_.

Bright blue light shone from the nexus, as bright and blue as the surrounding cowering flowers. The blue wisps of before gained form and shape, creating a yawning mouth in the clearing—a portal of unknown origin. The not-lightning settled around either end of the portal, pulling it wider with spider-thin hands. The heat called to some distant shape within the portal, another source of heat and light and life coming from only-Merlin-knew-where.

Fully formed at last, the strange portal hummed patiently, emitting more of that heat which shriveled the nearest bluebells and peeled the bark off the nearest trees. It wasn't any more sentient than the flowers or the trees or the animals, yet any passing observer would have said with surety that the thing seemed content to _wait_ for its passenger to emerge.

Its passenger took his sweet time. The portal spat sparks during his crossing that were blinding but too weak to set the grass ablaze. Magic hummed and hissed, patient and yet all too volatile; the wizard inside walked at an even pace, closer and closer to the exit which was less than one minute and over eighty years away.

When the portal yawned wider than the mouth of a cave, the young man who'd opened it stepped through at last. The wide crackling blue space pulsed with something like satisfaction, and some of the not-lightning dissipated. The traveler watched this with barely quirked lips.

He was tall, though not uncommonly so, and slender in a way that suggested he'd been better described as 'scrawny' when he was a boy. Black hair perched precariously on his head and brushed his shoulders, mussed as though it had been affected by the high winds which had preceded him in his journey here. His eyes were as startlingly green as ever, though slightly deeper and sharper now that he was past maturity. Although his black Muggle clothes and the black sweeping wizard's robes over them were quite nondescript, the features of his face ruined any anonymity he sought: over the compelling green eyes lay a well-worn pair of glasses (square rather than round), and right of center on his forehead was a lightning-bolt shaped scar which put the not-quite-bolts flashing around the portal behind him to shame.

Harry Potter took a moment to do a slow turn, absorbing his surroundings with one dark eyebrow raised—and the more he turned, the more his bemused expression turned sour. At the end of his rotation, a frown had taken up permanent residence on his face.

"Fuck," he uttered decisively. "This is _definitely_ not England."

They must have overshot the destination—there was no other explanation.

Time magic was—not precise, exactly. But it _was_ predictable, malleable, even when its consequences were anything but. And the work he and his colleagues and friends had been doing involved all the poking and pushing and molding necessary to make an endeavor like this possible: traveling inverse to the natural flow of time, faster and farther than an hour per trinket spin.

_…And speaking of._

He needed to smother his entry point, lest it lead to… _problems_. He'd promised there would be no problems this time.

_Right. Here and back, in a snap. Now where'd I stow that thing?_

Harry stuffed both his hands in the pockets of his robes, questing for the object his life would be tied to for the duration of this journey. His right hand was victorious; he pulled the warm, glowing sphere from his pocket and held it aloft, with the tiniest of triumphant grins.

The little artefact was about half again the size of a Remembrall, though its glassy surface was pale blue instead of clear. Around that surface, too, were interlinking patterns of gleaming gold bands, revolving slowly but steadily around the sphere like planetary rings, and covered on all sides with tiny numbers: dates, times, calculations, all measurements of the one thing that could not truly be measured. Keyed as it was to him, the device hummed with the warmth of being recently used—and so too did the 5 grams of glowing silver sand sliding about inside the sphere.

_"What'd she say it was called again?" Ron's nose was scrunched up mid-examination. "A… tempura slider?"_

_"A _Temporal Slicer,_ Ron," Hermione half-corrected, half-sighed. "Though I _doubt_ that's the official name, it's supposed to be capable of making an incision in a previously-intact timeline, and transporting its wielders to the end of that cut."_

Whatever the official name was, when Harry turned back around to face the portal, it was that very item he held even higher, showing no unease in the face of the hissing and snapping coming from his travel tunnel.

"Come on, you," he called out, "time to kip for a bit. Don't make things difficult."

And he threw the sphere forward, with unerring Seeker aim.

The Temporal Slicer flew straight as an arrow, halting an instant before it could go through the portal—immune, of course, to its own magic. Harry watched with no small amount of mingled disgust and approval as the silver sand froze in the sphere and a thin blue line appeared in the side of the ball, like a crack in the glass. Then the line became a gaping hole, as the Slicer opened its 'mouth' and _inhaled_.

_Screeee!_

Harry winced at the noise—but it was working. The Temporal Slicer was _swallowing_ the portal, drawing in the sparks of not-lightning and the blue wisps and the whole path back the way he came. It wasn't gone forever, of course, but preserved—frozen until he had accomplished his mission, and could go back to where he belonged.

_Safer than leaving the portal open in the middle of Merlin-knows-where, anyway_.

With a tiny noise like a _bloop_, the Slicer finished its dirty work: there was no further sign of the portal in the forest, and blue wisps now danced with the silver sand inside the newly-closed sphere.

"Nice work," Harry praised it, before drawing his holly-and-phoenix-feather wand for the first time in this time and incanting, "_Accio_."

The brilliant little invention sailed back to his hand without a single spark or sputter of protest.

Harry's mind was already racing ahead to other concerns as he pocketed it and the wand, and retrieved the compact disc that waited in his left pocket. He needed to find out exactly where he was, and _when_ he was. If he could nick a newspaper, or catch a radio broadcast, that would help immensely—especially as he was fairly sure he'd come to a time that predated television, and even in _his_ time they hadn't yet invented a spell to tell one any more than the current time and day in their zone. He needed to make sure, _absolutely sure_, that his target was still in England, and that the spell actually _had_ bungled by sending him _here_ instead and giving the git a head-start. And he needed to lay low while he accomplished every one of those tasks.

Attracting the wrong attention could be deadly when he was at least eighty-some years out of place.

_Not that I'm not used to attracting the wrong attention_.

_Enough of that_. He shook his head, and turned his attention to the disc, popping it open.

His next motions were well-practiced, and so swift: a thumb and finger from each hand made a few swipes inside the container, then ran over his forehead and his right hand in turns. Over and over, until his most identifiable scars were smothered, and no strange discolored patches stood out on his skin. It was a method far more effective and subtle than wandless charms or glamours, one most wizards would not notice, or even _think_ to notice. On his last two missions it had served him well—he hoped it would continue the trend now.

The disc was packed away quickly too, in favor of his wand. Harry glanced around once at the blanket of bluebell flowers, only closing his eyes when he was sure no one was near. He needed to concentrate, if he wanted the next spell he cast to latch on to the man he sought. Yes. He needed absolute focus, and—

_Oh, right_.

The last item to come out of Harry's robe pockets was perhaps the most important: a strip of cloth covered in mostly-dry blood, recently shed. The smell of iron still bit strongly at the nose from the stain, and only partly because of the Preservation Charms Ginny and Luna had placed on it. He had no way of knowing when those would wear off—_will traveling through time speed up or slow down their longevity? Hermione and Neville would know_—so it was best to do this next part as quickly as possible.

Twisting his wand ninety degrees counterclockwise, Harry drew a series of ovals in the air just around the item he wished to use for his tracking spell. He prodded at the place on the cloth where the blood was thickest. Finally, he drew the point of his wand slowly outward, siphoning away a thin red line like a thread or ribbon, one only he could see.

"_Vestigium sanguis_," he commanded, watching the tip of the wand glow as red as the freshest blood on the cloth; then he added at last the name of the man he had come to collect. "_Felix Rosier_."

The bloody cloth glowed pink—a sign of success, and precursor to the last movement he needed to provide to activate the Blood Trace. Without tarrying another second, Harry jabbed his wand out away from the cloth, flicking like he was trying to dislodge the shining red thread—which indeed he was.

The red ribbon popped free of his wand a mere moment later, and began to wind through the air to his right, high enough to weave between the lowest of the beech trees' branches in the process. Harry honestly couldn't say whether or not it went toward England, where the portal _should_ have spat him out; all he knew was that it was definitely heading west, based on the sliver of fading sunlight he could see in that same direction.

_But even if it's not going toward home, it doesn't matter._

The spell had worked just as easily as the last time he'd cast it; and the casting itself was easier, just like his handler had said it would be. It didn't matter that Harry still had no idea where exactly he _was_, now that he knew where he'd be _going_.

_I've got his trail. I'll find him._

Rosier might have thought he'd escaped persecution with the stunt he'd pulled, but he was in more danger now than he'd ever been before in his life, because a pissed-off Boy Who Lived had successfully tracked him this far—and wasn't planning on stopping until the little Death Eater-wannabe was in Azkaban.

_The sooner I track him down, the sooner I can take back those artefacts, throw him through the portal, and go home—without harming any of the sands of Time._

_Rosier—you'd better hope you find what you seek before _I_ do._

Harry Potter shook himself free of his thoughts and strode forward, following the red thread of Fate: one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. The trees whispered, the flowers cowered, and determination sang in his blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barring the premature destruction of the Earth via man-made climate change, Chapter 2 will be posted on Friday, December 6.


	2. The Charge

His first mistake was not immediately donning the Cloak.

Though his excuse for not doing so was valid (_why draw attention by using a powerful magical item in a relatively ordinary forest?_), the enduring invisibility he'd inherited from his as-yet-unborn ancestors would have saved him from a lot of the trouble to come.

As it was, Harry did not get very far in his trek across Hallerbos, seeking a man and a paper, before he was taken off track. But at the beginning all seemed to be proceeding smoothly.

The red thread tied to Felix Rosier's blood bounced inexorably forward, only pausing when its caster fell too far behind to be seen. Harry himself picked carefully through the trees, using all his prior experience living in forests to keep from snapping too many twigs or disturbing too many resting animals. So far he'd come across no creatures that considered humans prey, but he wasn't holding out hope that there were none, or that they'd give the infamous Potter luck a miss this one time.

He already had a plan for the moment he caught up to the slippery bastard. Of course, there was room for variety: he hadn't yet locked down whether he'd hit Rosier with an overpowered _Immobulus _or a simple _Petrificus Totalus_, whether he'd Disarm the man right off or let him get a few spells off before opening up the Temporal Slicer and blasting him back to the twenty-first century.

_So many options, so many satisfying choices._

Whatever he did, though, he'd have to make sure he divested Rosier of all the weapons he might've picked up during his journey—less chance of the man taking him by surprise again that way. Most wizards didn't suffer themselves to carry guns or grenades or tasers—though swords and staves were still in fashion in other places on the planet, and a well-utilized knife was nothing to scoff at—but desperate men were quick to lay aside their misgivings if it meant surviving to create more mayhem for their more decent counterparts. And his quarry was among the most desperate men he'd ever seen. The Boss would _kill_ Harry if he let another Muggle weapon facilitate Rosier jumping to still another part of the timeline.

And speaking of time… well. The Temporal Slicer that Rosier had obtained was keyed to him now, so it would have to be destroyed. It was a shame—a gross waste of valuable resources.

_It also means Ginny will have to wait another year before she can test in and get her first assignment._

Harry allowed himself one wry grin before setting his face back to 'stony'. There was work to be done.

He withdrew his wand again as he marched through the bluebells. "_Point Me_," he whispered, and the trusty wood spun in his hand, eventually facing his right. _So I'm _still_ following him west_, he thought; _but west to where?_ _Is he running blindly_... _or is he looking for Voldemort?_

The possibility of Felix Rosier meeting a young, cold, impressionable Tom Riddle made him turn his stride into a jog. Right now as he snarked and stumbled, the flow of time as he knew it could be unraveling.

_Keep it together. He can't be too far ahead of me_—_whatever year this is, neither of us in it is licensed to Apparate internationally. If he risks popping across borders to lose me, the Ministries will come down hard. And international Portkeys aren't any easier to make or procure. If he's trying to get to Voldemort he can't risk being found by any authorities, or he'll end up on Table Five in the Department of Mysteries before he can say "pure-blood protection"_.

Harry's Temporal Slicer hummed in his pocket, like it was agreeing with him.

The last traces of the sun disappeared from the sky—and the dark curtain over the forest darkened further still. In the deepening night, the flowers glowed like eerie blue yard-lights—or like watchful will-o'-the-wisps whispering the forest's secrets.

Later, he attributed the solemn quiet hush that came over the place as the reason why he picked up the broken gasp and the sound of footsteps so quickly.

Someone was running toward him—practically demolishing the flowers, if their speed was to be believed. Since he had no preternatural powers beyond the ones gifted to him as a magical being, Harry had no idea who was coming; but he knew it wasn't Rosier. The sibilant red thread still sliding through the sky above him hadn't changed direction in the slightest. He knew it was a person, but for all he knew it could be a wayward Muggle...

The idea evaporated before it could take hold, punctuated by a quiet snort.

_And since when is it _ever_ just a wayward Muggle?_

No, someone was coming and they probably weren't a non-magical. Running wasn't an option; even with stamina as respectable as his, he'd have to stop eventually. Nor did he want to give the person that might be in pursuit of him an open back to target. There was also the fact that he still had no idea what other malicious magical creatures might inhabit this forest, biding their time until some fleeing idiot wizard sprinted straight into their territory. The only thing to do was to hide.

The gasping grew louder—became quick, measured panting. There was a sound like boots stumbling over a dip in the forest floor, a crackle of branches broken underfoot. Closer and closer to his position.

Harry pointed hastily at his chest and jabbed just above his belly. "_Elevatus._"

The impromptu lifting spell worked a little too well—two seconds later he had to nearly bite through his lip to keep from yelping as he was jerked off his feet and dumped in the (relatively) low-hanging branches of the nearest beech tree. Some of the bark ended up scratching at his hands and face anyway as he moved into a crouch.

_Shite, I hate that spell_.

But hopefully it had worked.

He kept quiet, trying not to rustle the leaves around him—and he was soon rewarded.

A willowy figure came into view ten feet away. The person was a female, and she was sprinting across the grass like the hounds of hell were after her. She wore a torn gray-blue dress that (together with the glow from the surrounding flowers) made her pale face stand out all the more—though judging from her wide eyes, fear had robbed her of some of her color. Just as she drew level with the tree Harry squirmed in, her foot caught another uneven patch of ground and she sprawled.

Harry winced sympathetically, even as the rest of him remained wary. The brief look at her he'd gotten so far said that she was no more his pursuer than the wind at his back was... but he'd been fooled before. _Best to keep watching_.

But the color drained from _his_ face too when she got to her feet and paused in her flight to brush off her clothes and wipe at a new cut on her face. Long, washed-out blonde hair... pretty blue eyes that slightly protruded in her heart-shaped face... delicate, dainty features which might almost be called ethereal...

_It can't be._

_"Luna?"_ Harry croaked.

He cursed himself the moment her eyes darted wildly and unerringly up to meet his. His shock and disorientation was so great that he'd forgotten all about the need to be silent.

_But how could Luna Lovegood be _here_?_

Harry's mind raced as he and the girl stared at each other, both too terrified to break the silence. This girl didn't look any older than seventeen, and Luna hadn't been seventeen in quite a while. Had he perhaps miscalculated when he traced Rosier's Temporal Slicer to this new time, and ended up in the more recent past? Had _Rosier_ miscalculated, or perhaps not meant to travel back as far as the calculations suggested, as he and his friends had guessed?

_This doesn't make any sense._

As his own thoughts tumbled over and over in his head, his not-pursuer spoke for the first time: a carrying whisper that cut through his ruminations.

"Please don't hurt me."

Harry blinked down at her. "I don't even know you," he said baldly. And it was true: upon closer inspection, although this girl looked enough like Luna Lovegood to be her younger sister, she was definitely a different person.

Still, he didn't relax. And she didn't either. In fact, she backed up, sliding her hands into the pockets of her dress like she was trying to get them out of sight as soon as possible. But her eyes pinned him in place. "You speak English. And your accent sounds familiar. _Are_ you English...?"

"Could be," he offered. "What's it to you?"

He saw one of her hands fist in its pocket. "I don't wish for any trouble," she told him in a strained voice. "I live there—and I was taken away from my home a few months past. I only want to get back."

_So we're _not_ in England now._ Harry wanted to swear, but there wasn't time to focus on his own woes. With any luck he wasn't too far off from his intended destination—worst luck, he could hitch a ride Muggle-style across a few borders.

Right now he had to figure out what this girl might want from him.

"We happen to be going in the same direction, then. I was on my way to England myself when I got... turned around."

From the way her eyes lit up, that must have been the right thing to say—though how she reckoned that, he didn't have a clue. Though her movements were hesitant, she eventually revealed the fist in her pocket and the item contained within: a wand.

_She's a witch! An underaged witch in the middle of the forest in not-Magical Britain. What are the chances?_

"My name is Phaedra. If your destination is also England, I think you should take me along."

The words nearly made Harry fall out of the tree.

"_What?_ Why in the world should I travel with a stranger?" _And why would you _want_ to, you mad girl?_ he thought despite himself.

"Because you are lost, and I am scared," she countered, rather directly. "You don't want to be noticed, and I don't want to be caught. And you are much stronger than I am. We'll have a much better chance of staying safe if we stay together."

_Unless you're just saying that so I'll let my guard down._

"...Please."

The word was so soft it was a wonder Harry heard it—but so plaintive and desperate that it was impossible for him to hear anything else.

Phaedra didn't put her hands together or kneel, but her pleading came through all the same.

"I was taken away from my home," she repeated, "and brought here. I fell asleep at the dinner table and woke up in one of _his_ places—prisons—schools. He calls it the Schule der Macht—though it's nothing like a real magical school. It is a twisted mockery of one. It is a place where restless spirits whisper in the walls and Dark creatures patrol the grounds. A 'school' where the first thing you learn is how to make another person scream. It is a horror of underfed, haunted children forced to wave their wands and perform the worst sort of magic."

Harry's thoughts raced. He knew enough German to know that she had just said _School of Might_, and knew enough 'dark wizard' to know that the disgusting things she described were par for the course with any mad megalomaniac—but he had no idea off the top of his head who she meant when she said it was 'his'. Although—a thrill of unease tickled down his spine—German was never a good sign. There were too many wizards and Muggles alike who had caused trouble for their kind from that part of the world... and one or two in particular. Had Hitler ever known about the existence of magic, and perhaps attempted to twist its users to his own ends?

_Sweet Merlin, have I landed right in the middle of Hitler's mad grab for power?_

Phaedra kept speaking, ignorant to the hurricane of thoughts battering his mind. "Once you are 'invited' to attend this school, you cannot leave. I escaped by chance. I know they're looking for me. Please... don't let them take me back to that place."

With her pale blue eyes stretched almost impossibly wide, with fear practically making strands of her hair stand on end, Phaedra looked even more like Luna than she had the first time Harry saw her. It was easy to superimpose Luna's waifish features from ten years ago over this young woman's—which meant it was even easier than that for much of his mistrust and resolve to crumble.

"All right... all right. Quit that begging, yeah? I'll get you away from here."

Other than her lips and the brief scrunch of her eyebrows, Phaedra didn't move a muscle. "...Do you mean it?"

Harry scoffed. After one glance at the forest floor, he leaped from the birch tree back to the ground, brushed himself off and approached his new traveling companion, holding out his wand hand for her to shake.

"I don't say stuff I don't mean."

She stared at him.

He gave his hand a little meaningful wiggle. _Rude to leave someone hanging, no matter what time it is._ "I'm Harry Evans," he told her. "Are you coming or what?"

They ended up running in the dark.

Harry had cast an overpowered _Silencio_ spell on their shoes and clothes almost immediately, the better to keep any of Phaedra's pursuers from tracking them the way he had tracked her. Then he jerked his head in the direction his red ribbon was pointing, and they darted away.

"What is that thread we're following?" Phaedra asked him at one point, predictably.

"Just the trail of someone I'm trying to find," he replied casually, mixing the truth with enough vagueness to make his boss proud. "I reckon they were probably trying to get out of this forest too—and leaving this maze is our best bet for losing your pursuers, don't you think?"

"Yes... of course."

It's strange for Harry to see his feet crush the bluebells, see their lights go out and flicker back on, without being able to hear it at all. The girl that wasn't Luna was running just as soundlessly alongside him, and he was impressed with how well she kept pace when her face was still white as a ghost's. She only stumbled once, and he was quick to clutch her arm and get her back on her feet.

But they couldn't keep up their pace forever. Eventually Phaedra slowed, clutching a stitch in her side, and Harry had no choice but to pull up and circle back around to cover her back.

"I'm sorry..." she panted. "I'm not... the most athletic person..."

He shook his head, unbothered. Ten years on, and it was still easy to forget when he hopped timelines that most young adults didn't have the stamina or endurance that he and his friends had. "I was pushing you so we'd be away from the place where we found each other... we should be better off now."

_Hopefully_.

Phaedra plopped down among the flowers. "How close do you think we are to Calais...?" she asked.

_In **France**?_ Harry had to work harder to keep his next words calm, because if anyone had asked him before that moment where he thought he was, _somewhere closer to a city in France than in good ol' England_ would not have been his first guess. Or his fifth. "That... er... depends on exactly where we are _now_."

"You don't know? Well... we're somewhere in Belgium, I think. The trees and flowers here match the descriptions of Hallerbos Forest that I've read about—"

_Hallerbos. A bloody forest in bloody Belgium. Two days away from Calais, the nearest International Portkey transfer point to London—and any Muggle transportation I could use instead._

_Potter, you make screwing up an art form._

"—and most of my 'instructors' at that school spoke either Dutch or French, unless they were one of _his_...then it was only ever German."

This second emphasis of the mysterious 'him' caught Harry's attention—though his next question came out sharper than he intended. "That's the second time you've said 'his' without specifying who you're talking about. Should I already know this bloke you're so scared of?"

Phaedra got up very, very slowly. She was still whey-faced, but her eyes were starting to widen again.

"You mean, you _don't_ know?" she asked—and then she went completely still, like she'd been hit with a _Petrificus Totalus_.

In the same moment, the hair on the back of Harry's neck stood on end. With unerring instinct, beyond all doubt, he suddenly _knew_ that someone had cast something very, very unpleasant and sent it straight for them.

_"Down!"_ he shouted, and tackled Phaedra just in time; seconds later, three jets of light (orange, blue and red) flew over their heads and set off small explosions among the blue blooms.

Fire leapt up immediately to burn a circle through the flowers around them. A blue shimmering line spread across their forward path too, and Harry cursed internally as he realized what had just happened: their pursuer had chained _Confringo, Expulso and Stupefy_ into a nasty-looking blaze _and_ an Anti-Disapparition Jinx. Unless the wizards of this time were all so uncommonly skilled, they weren't dealing with an average Snatcher or jailer.

_How the hell didn't I hear them coming?_

Phaedra let out a whimper.

"Oh no..." she said faintly, curling tightly into Harry like she could disappear if she just pressed hard enough, and magic be damned. "Oh no, oh _no_..."

"What—" Harry meant to ask, but never got the chance. A dark wiry form cleared a path through the fire just behind their prone forms and advanced rapidly on them.

The flames backlit the man's shoulder-length golden-blond hair, making it burn in its own way; they drew one's gaze to his frosty blue eyes, narrowed with mingled curiosity and intense focus. Billowing blue-black robes whipped out behind him like a rebellious banner, a battle flag—and etched on the right breast, in small white stitching, was a very familiar design: a straight line, encompassed by a perfect circle and triangle.

He was alluring and intimidating and dangerous—and, thanks to the astonishingly accurate likenesses of him smirking from copies of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore (1997)_ and _Fifty Dastardly, Deadly Dark Wizards to Never Cross Wands With (2006)_, immediately familiar.

Harry had no memory of pulling himself and Phaedra to their feet; every single nerve in his body was already numb.

"Miss Lovegood," the newcomer declared, with a melodious lilt to his low voice, "we missed you at dinner."

_Merlin's saggy bollocks_, Harry thought, losing all the color in _his_ face for the second time that night. _Gellert Grindelwald_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless the author is soundly defeated by the very real threat of disgruntled stalkers, Chapter 3 will be posted on Friday, December 20.


	3. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a 'flashback' chapter set in the present. These will roughly occur every third chapter in the story.

_1 April 2008_

_Department of Mysteries, Sub-Department of Corrective Measures_

_London, United Kingdom_

"Nothing I am about to say should leave this room," Valeria Robards dictated. "Not one word. So if Granger, Lovegood or _either_ of the Weasleys find out about this before I've told them—"

"—then you'll have no compunctions about hexing our bollocks off," Harry interrupted. His fingers drummed impatiently on one knee. "Right. Can you just tell us already what's happened?"

He deserved the glare she leveled at him for his cheek—but it did force her to get to the point, so he counted it as a necessary evil. When left with no time limit to explain a concept, _any_ concept, she could turn into a worse textbook than Hermione.

That was probably their only similarity. Robards, Head of the Department of Corrective Measures, was an extremely charismatic woman and one of Kingsley Shacklebolt's contemporaries: decisive, strong-willed and aggressively fair. Harry couldn't pin down her Hogwarts House for the life of him, and he'd tried many times to figure it out, but he was up against one of the _least _interested people in House pride outside of school that he'd met so far. Her office was its _own_ bloody Department of Mysteries.

She was frightening and frustrating in turns—and also the best boss he had ever had.

As he watched her whip out her wand and tap some sheets of paper stacked next to her, Harry glanced to his left to grin at his current shift partner, as if to say _this should be good_. Neville Longbottom met his eyes for a split second before looking away, and the smile he offered back was... weaker than Harry had expected.

_Uh-oh_.

"You two are already aware of Felix Rosier and his misdeeds, correct?"

That particular name was the only one able to—violently—snap Harry out of his sudden preoccupation with Neville's behavioral shift. He sat up straight at once, as his old dorm-mate did beside him.

_Rosier..._

"We're aware," Neville confirmed, gravely.

"Well, he's done worse." Robards' non-wand hand clenched. There was a tense silence as the young men waited for her to speak, but it took many moments of watching the muscle quiver in her jaw before she managed to share the latest bad news.

"Sometime in the last month, Rosier found out about the Temporal Slicers... and last night, he stole one."

Neville hissed through his teeth, and Harry's brain stuttered.

In the ten brisk years since Voldemort's defeat, he had crossed wands with a _lot_ of the man's brainwashed victims, sympathizers and full-throated supporters and followers. Felix Rosier did not fit neatly into any of those boxes, but he was still capital-T Trouble and a shoe-in for any written list of Dark-aligned wizards, with a forearm-length rap sheet of encounters with the law and a disturbing habit of sending all his enemies to very serious sections of St. Mungo's. He was the son of Evan Rosier, one of Voldemort's fiercest Death Eaters before his first fall—and his seemingly uneventful time at Hogwarts eleven years before Harry's own birth belied the fanatical obsession he now had with his father's old master.

Most importantly, Rosier was definitely _not_ a Corrector.

"How did he get in here?" he demanded. "There's guards posted down here twenty-four seven now, you tell us that all the time. Who was on duty last night? Wasn't it Li?"

"Su Li had to beg off her shift for a family emergency," Robards said. "And _Boot_ didn't show up to cover her in time. By the time he arrived, Rosier'd already made short work of the Ministry Head whose path he happened to cross on the way down to the Time Chamber—I believe you both know Cho Chang?"

Harry's insides contracted; he lost the ability to form words.

_...Cho._

_Oh no._

_She's over International Magical Cooperation... what the hell was she doing down here?_

"...What did he do to her?" Neville finally asked, once the quivering silence had stretched nearly enough to snap.

Their boss scanned the sheets under her wand. "You honestly want the details...? It was hardly a clean duel. A _Reducto_ shattered the bones in her knee. There's evidence that they traded _Diffindos_ in their duel. We think Chang managed to gift him some internal bruises with _Expulso_ before he used _Sectumsempra _to get past her."

The squirming in Harry's gut got worse. _Sectumsempra_... of all the curses for her to be felled by, why in the world did it have to be that one?

He opened his mouth, closed it immediately—and tried again a moment later with more success. "Has... has anyone told her family?" His voice was hoarse. "Made arrangements?"

"There's no need, Potter. She's not dead—though if I hadn't got to her when I did when my office alarm went off, she certainly _would_ have been."

"So she's all right?" the other young man asked anxiously, while Harry re-learned how to breathe in fascinating detail. "Barring a bit of time in St. Mungo's?"

"If by 'a bit' you mean three weeks to make sure all her nerves and organs are healed properly, then yes. Chang is lucky—Rosier might have a cruel streak, but there's not too much skill hidden behind it."

_Not too much skill, she says... yet not everyone can cast Snape's old spell._

Robards flicked her short wand in an arc to dismiss the sheets of paper into a drawer hanging open behind her. She moved directly in front of Harry and Neville and fixed them with an intense silvery gaze, one reserved for only the most serious occasions.

"I don't need to impress on either of you how serious this is. Only Correctors are allowed to have Temporal Slicers, and with good reason. I've mopped up enough messy timelines borne of Time-Turner abuse to know we need to find and detain Rosier _now_."

Neville nodded: a short, sharp thing. He asked, "I'm assuming he found out how to use the Slicer and is no longer in the present?"

"A safe assumption." With another half-flick, a holographic timeline shimmered into being and hovered in the air, while a pulsing red glow bounced from _April 2008_ backwards over at least seven or eight long vertical lines. "I can't pinpoint the exact year, but the excess energy his trinket's putting off suggests the 1920s or 1930s. Don't suppose either of you know why Rosier's interested in that period...?"

Neville shook his head and shrugged, but Harry remained quiet. Several months of specialized private lessons from years ago were dancing through his thoughts. He was pretty sure that one Tom Riddle had been born in the late twenties, raised in the early thirties, and attended Hogwarts through much of those thirties and some of the forties. That... did not spell good things.

"Well, it doesn't matter much now. Longbottom, Potter—you two are the best young Correctors I have. And this period of time isn't a sensitive one for either of you, so I need at least one of you two on this. Track Rosier, destroy the device, and bring him back here so the Aurors can take care of him. Who'd like to volunteer?"

Determination burned fiercely under Harry's skin; he stated "I'll go" as quickly as he could, before realizing that the person he was trying to beat to the punch hadn't said a word.

"Where's your enthusiasm, Longbottom?" Robards asked lightly, unknowingly echoing Harry's own curiosity.

Although clear displeasure with the situation at hand sparkled in Neville's eyes, he only shook his head again at the direct and indirect questions coming from his audience. In a low voice, as he ran a hand quickly through his blond hair, he begged off: "I don't think I'm the right man for this job, is all... Harry'll do just fine."

"Won't you come with me at least—if I take point?" Harry prodded, with a meaningful little lilt in his voice. It had been some months since they'd gone on a mission together, and they worked _quite_ well as partners. It would also give them a chance to clear the air from earlier, talk about whatever was weighing so heavily on Neville's mind. _Maybe_...

But Neville mumbled a soft but clear negative, increasing Harry's buried unease.

"Very well then—Potter, you still up for this?"

Turning away from his friend, he met his Head's gaze head-on, and spoke with all the confidence he felt. "I insist on going. I won't let you down."

"That's what I like to hear. I'll send you the briefings from Chang in a few hours, couple of days at the most—and I want you Traveling after him as soon as possible."

Harry's spine straightened. He knew what that meant—if Robards was sure that Rosier had already used the Temporal Slicer, and she wanted him retrieved that quickly, that meant she suspected he would change something important. _That_ meant there were devastating consequences for them all the longer the man was allowed to linger in a time that wasn't his. One wrong move, and the world as they knew it would dissolve. So in no time at all, Harry would leave his own time behind until his quarry was caught, with return forbidden until his quest was complete.

"Understood."

"Oi, _Neville_—"

He swiftly caught up to his friend by the lifts—and just as swiftly came to wish he hadn't.

"I'm a bit short on time right now, Harry..."

"Then I'll be quick," Harry said bluntly. "You've been avoiding me since that night in London. How come?"

He felt a swoop of savage satisfaction at the way Neville blushed and ducked his head, and forced himself to stifle it and _focus_. Succumbing to his seesawing emotions was the last thing he needed to do now that he had the chance to get some answers about his partner's distant behavior of the past month. But now that he'd cornered his target, it was much easier to be distracted by the faint pink discolored bruise peeking out from Neville's concealed clavicle, healing slowly, and to remember the exact lazy afternoon he had put it there.

To his credit, Neville at least had the grace to look a little ashamed. "I haven't... _exactly_ been avoiding you—"

"Don't. Don't—bullshit me. If something's wrong, just tell me."

"Nothing's wrong!"

Harry pressed on, still skeptical. "Did I say something wrong? Do something wrong? Only, I have no idea how we went from two years of nice dinners, joint vacations and good shags to you blocking my Floo calls and taking different roads to work."

"_Harry_," Neville hissed. His cheeks flushed even darker, and he glanced several times at the lift descending blessedly-slow toward them. "Can we not talk about this here? You know Robards listens in on all the conversations that happen in the hall, and Dean's probably working late around here somewhere."

"Let them listen. Unless you're ashamed of me all of a sudden?"

"I'm not ashamed of you!"

_Ding_.

The lift arrived and the mousier Gryffindor alum darted inside. Harry stomped in after him, his insides still squirming with anxiety and anger in turns. _So damn typical_, he thought as the doors pulled shut; _so typical that the minute things go pear-shaped, _I_ have to be the one to chase, to ask, to make the first bloody move. Is it too much to ask that he stop running away and tell me something that makes sense?_

He turned over several cutting phrases in his mind, and finally broke the stilted silence with: "I'm pretty familiar with what shame looks like, you know."

"I'm not ashamed—this _isn't_ _shame_, Harry. It's not something easy to explain, and I don't want to disrespect you."

"Right. You'd rather ignore me instead."

Neville protested, but this time Harry was the one that looked away. Even after eleven years free of the Dursleys and their corrosive influence on his psyche, he hated being willfully neglected above all things, and no one knew that better than his friends. As the man he'd willingly chosen to hold a bit of his heart in these dark times, _and_ as a close friend of Harry's, Neville should have known he would've been better off hexing the Boy-Who-Lived rather than avoiding him.

"I know you're angry at me, but you must know I'd never hurt you on purpose. You're one of my best mates, Harry."

_Could've fooled me._

"Press the button," he snapped, gesturing to the dark panel.

"I didn't mean to walk out on you while you were starkers," the other man blurted, still red in the face. "I mean—I _did_, but I was so mixed-up that I didn't tell you _why_ I was leaving. And it's obvious you came to my flat to surprise me, and for me to run out like that—I'm sorry, I'm so—"

"_Press the damn button_, Neville," Harry ground out.

Neville made no move to obey, though, so he ended up jabbing at the button for level eight, the Atrium, himself. The lift took off with only the briefest shudder, as if it were shaking off the chilly aura of the Department of Mysteries so it might work properly. Despite its best efforts, though, the chill between its temporary residents lingered.

"...So what is it?" Harry finally asked, just as slivers of light from the floors above crept in to paint separate shadows on their faces. Not being able to see his lover properly made his next words easier to spit out. "Did the fun of shagging another 'war hero' wear off? Am I too _damaged_ for you after all—or maybe too damaged according to your Gran?"

The reaction was immediate; he found himself being slammed into the wall shoulder-first, while Neville's brown eyes blazed reproachfully at him, up close and personal. "Don't bring her into this," he demanded. "Gran has nothing—_nothing_—but respect for you, and she hasn't said a single word against you and me. This isn't about her; it's about someone else. About me."

The last bit was so obviously hastily tacked-on that it did nothing to alleviate the renewed shivering in Harry's gut, in his chest and all the way out to his fingers. But he didn't let a moment of that turmoil show on his face. No, it was much, much easier to just be angry.

"Stop dancing around whatever you mean to say, and _say it_."

Neville dropped his hands like they'd just been burned, and worked his jaw a few times. For their last few seconds in the lift, he was struck as dumb as Harry'd been the moment he heard about Cho. Then the doors opened with another _ding_, and he blew out the shakiest breath Harry had ever heard him take.

"A month ago I went out for tea with Hannah—Hannah Abbot, you remember, from Hogwarts, and Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? We crossed paths in London and got to talking, and ended up catching up the rest of that night."

Harry remembered the kindhearted Hufflepuff girl perfectly well, both from school and from brief meetings in the Ministry. He also remembered the time frame in question, when Neville had begged off meeting him one evening in favor of "catching up with an old friend". Now he knew who that was.

"It was nice talking with her—really nice. So it... kind of became a thing, every week, when I wasn't with you. We've been getting together whenever we had time and going out for dinner, or volunteering some time for the Ministry's greenhouses..."

"Enough," Harry interrupted. Instead of quivering, his gut now felt like it was consuming itself. He wasn't brilliant by any means, but his instincts were screaming at him; he could see where this was going. "I get it."

And he abruptly felt very, very stupid.

"You don't," Neville protested, but weakly, his voice nearly as quiet as Harry's. "This wasn't what it sounds like! Not at first. It was just me spending time with one of the few people who was nice to me the entire time I was at Hogwarts together—someone who loved Herbology as much as I did. Hannah's so... so _good_, and suddenly I was looking for more time to spend with her, and then two weekends ago when it snowed I was stuck in her flat—"

"I said _enough_."

This time _he_ looked down and away. His jaw trembled, but his eyes didn't sting and he was proud of that. Even though he hadn't had such uncharitable thoughts about a Hufflepuff since fucking Cedric Diggory had turned Cho's head, the frigid bitterness made itself at home in every corner of his body like an old friend, like Crookshanks claiming a friendly lap.

"I'm sorry... I never, _ever_ meant for anything to happen with her."

"...'Course you didn't."

"If you're going to be angry with anyone, _please_ let it be me. I was the one who should've known better. These past two years have been some of the best of my life... and you're the main reason for that."

Harry stayed silent. He felt hollow: far too empty inside to risk letting anything else out.

Neville, by contrast, seemed determined to dig himself a deeper hole based on how much he was babbling. It was a startling contrast from how reserved and taciturn he'd been just a few minutes ago. "I dunno what else to say except... well... except that you're right. I should've talked to you sooner, instead of having it come out like this. But I can't keep lying to you, and I can't keep asking Hannah to meet up at dodgy times. And I can't keep splitting time between you—I have to choose."

_And you choose her_.

"...I have feelings for her, Harry," he said softly. "Like I've never had for anyone before."

_Never had for anyone,_ Harry repeated in his head as he stepped firmly out of the lift, body half-angled toward the street exits. _Certainly not your mate, the one you helped get through the end of the war, the trials, and the Department of Mysteries' tests, and half-raising Teddy, and briefly being persona non grata at the Weasleys'. He was just a placeholder. A warm body._

"I don't want this to change anything else," Neville pleaded, hurrying after _him_ for once. "I mean... I know you're angry, I can see it on your face, but... we've been friends for years. I care about you. I don't want to lose you."

He tried to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder—and it was that seemingly innocuous move that really kindled Harry's temper.

"Don't touch me," he whispered; almost hissed.

"Harry..."

"No," Harry said. He batted Neville's hand away, and fixed him with his most venomous glare—felt more savage pleasure at the way his (former) lover recoiled. But then he remembered that they were out in the open, and that even late at night there was a good chance they'd pick up an uninvited audience—and took a slow, deep breath instead of starting to shout.

"I'll come get my other stuff from your flat," he continued, in as toneless a voice as possible after the far-too-brief flare of rage. "But only because it's _mine _and I don't want you or _Hannah_ throwing it away."

"Neither of us would—"

"Why don't you try being quiet again?" he sneered. "It was all you were up for a few minutes ago."

To that, Neville had no verbal response. Harry had never seen anyone duck their head that low before and still remain upright.

"You don't get to decide whether or not you 'lose' me," he declared. "Not after doing something like this. Not after lying to me about it. You can just—no, you know what? Never mind. I don't think I have anything more to say to you today. Good-bye, Neville."

"Harry," Neville said again, in an even more plaintive tone.

But Harry didn't stick around to see what his partner would have said or done. With a snap of his robes, he turned and exited the Ministry, pulse pounding in his ears.

_No time like the present to keep my word about my things_, he thought. _I've been leaving my favorite toothbrush at his flat. If I find Abbott starkers in the loo using it though, I might have to share cell space with the Malfoys._

_...On second thought, maybe I should get a pint of Firewhiskey first._

The end of the street (and the anti-Apparition wards) came more quickly than he recalled, half-lucid as he was. Small flickers of lightning crackled around him as he made a perfect turn and vanished.

_2 April 2008_

"I think you're absolutely right," Hermione Granger opined. "It couldn't be clearer what Rosier's after."

Harry nodded as he idly stirred the midnight tea she'd been kind enough to whip up for him. Hermione didn't often accept visits after nine or ten o'clock in the evening, even from her closest friends, but she'd taken one look at his ragged appearance that night and immediately bustled him in to lounge in her living room, ready to soothe and distract him with theories from work.

So far, it was working all right.

"The only thing I can't figure out," he ventured, "is why _this_. And why now? You can't bring people back from the dead—necromancy's long been proven inviable. And even if he's gone back with a Temporal Slicer, he would have to overcome so many enemies and obstacles, not _least_ whatever changes he made in the timeline..."

She shrugged, oddly unconcerned for once with the _why_ of something. "We can ask him ourselves, once you've gone and retrieved him from wherever he is. ...Er, _when_ever. You said Valeria couldn't pinpoint the exact year he's fled to?"

"Nope. Closest she got was within a twenty-year block. Are you ever going to stop calling adults old enough to be our parents by their first names?"

He was rewarded with a whack on the head from that morning's _Daily Prophet_. "Oof, a direct hit. And wandless, too!" he snarked. "Very impressive, Miss Granger, ten points."

"Oh, hush. I'll need to do some calculations in the morning, just to be on the safe side. There's nothing sensible or safe about sending you to a random time without any way of knowing whether the man you're chasing is _there_ or not."

Harry frowned. "You really think I was going to run blindly into the past with no direction?"

"It wouldn't be without precedent."

"That was _one time_! And time was of the essence, if I hadn't gotten to that Hogsmeade battle in time to stop that absolute _nutter_ spilling the beans about the prophecy to Voldemort five years before it was made—"

"If _we_ hadn't gotten," Hermione corrected. "I don't need the reminder, all three of us were there. You still acted rashly, and I don't think you want another mistake on your record. This should be a simple in-and-out Skip, don't you think?"

"I _do_ think," he said in a high, mimicking voice, but ducked into his tea following her glare, subsiding for the time being. His next words were more thoughtful. "But you can't do your calculations at the office yet. I told Robards I wouldn't tell you, Ron, Luna _or_ Ginny before she could brief you."

"And you decided to tell me and Ron anyway?" she finished, looking pleased.

"'Course I did, what kind of friend would I be if I kept something like this under wraps? ...Though I kind of thought Ron would be here by now." He glanced around carefully, and spoke to her in a lower voice. "You _did_ key him back into your wards when you two decided to be friends again, right...?"

"Of course I did!"

But Hermione flushed like it had been a very _recent_ re-addition.

By unspoken agreement, they agreed to wait on their third to arrive before discussing Rosier any more. Harry poured his hostess more tea, and she nodded gratefully in his direction while scribbling notes with a Muggle pen and snuggling into the love-seat she'd brought over from her parents' house.

Predictably, Hermione broke the silence first. "Did Valeria really say it was _Terry_ who showed up late to cover Su?"

"Sure did." He gave her a pointed look. "You wouldn't happen to know if he was... _busy_ elsewhere that night, would you?"

Though her blush deepened, she sounded mercifully indignant. "He certainly _wasn't _busy with _me_. I wouldn't let him skive off duty; our work is too important."

"Right."

They both made a show of drinking deeply from their cups, letting the quiet creep back in for a while.

"Harry...?" she said carefully after the next ten or so minutes of silence. "I know you may not want to talk about N-Neville yet, but... if you need to take some time before this mission, I don't think Valeria would be too bothered if you asked for leave—"

"I'm fine. I don't need any time." He kept his voice cool and clipped, and didn't say _I've had worse things happen, and I didn't ask for any leave then._

"You're obviously _not_ fine. And no one expects you to be after something like—"

"Hermione. Just... drop it, all right? I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight."

Hermione had a look like she might have pressed, lanced the boil—but at that moment her Floo flared red-gold, and Ron Weasley strolled out with minimal ash accompaniment.

"Hey all, good news," he quipped. "It didn't take me _nearly_ as long to kill and bury Neville as I thought it might!"

Harry scowled. "That's _not_ funny."

His best mate just shrugged and strode over, giving him a brief one-armed hug (and a demeaning hair-ruffle). He and Hermione shared a hug that was both more tender and more awkward, but still much better than the frosty indifference they'd treated each other with back when they initially called it quits.

"Sorry I'm late, though, honestly," he said in a more muted voice as he dropped his traveling cloak on the love-seat—and then re-deposited it on the closest coat rack following his ex-girlfriend's low hiss. "I went back to Mum and Dad's for the ceremony... I reckon it was about as rough as it is every year. Lost track of time. George didn't drink as much this year, though, so that's all right."

Hermione and Harry both nodded, and no one looked at anyone for a bit. Fred and George's shared birthday was always a difficult time for the Weasleys; only the creation of a private, combined "birthday and remembrance ceremony" had pushed the remaining family members through the day for the last six or seven years.

"...So, what'd I miss?"

"Not much—we waited up."

Hermione held up her scribbled notes from earlier. "You remember Felix Rosier from when you arrested him back in '03, don't you? Is there anything we're missing about him?"

Ron plopped down in the single chair Harry had just vacated. His eyebrows drew together and he scratched idly at his beard as he skimmed the paper, clearly reaching for his own memories in the meantime. "Nothing special... he didn't seem that different from any of the other Death Eater-affiliates we rounded up back in those days. Maybe a little quieter? He wasn't raving like Mulciber or Greyback."

"_No one_ was raving like Mulciber or Greyback," Harry recalled, and had to readjust his glasses after dodging another smack from the _Prophet_ for his cheek. Some of the captures from their brief Auror stint still stood out all these years later, and those two were some of the _most_ outstanding. His ears still rang sometimes at night from echoes of the cursing and shrieking.

After a moment Ron put the tiny, detailed notes down and fixed his oldest friends with a serious look. It was the same look he got when it was time to arrest a Dark wizard, or when he heard especially troubling news, whether that was about Hagrid hoarding dragons, Voldemort heading straight for Hogwarts, or gold changing hands at Death Eaters' trials. The other two rewarded him with equally serious stares and their full attention.

"Normally I wouldn't care much about this," he began. "What's one more nutter obsessed with _Him_ to lock up, right? Or not, so long as he's not doing anything wrong or getting anyone hurt. Even him stealing a Slicer isn't something new to any of us, let alone the senior Correctors or Robards. But... it's weird that the one thing I _do_ remember about him worries me more than the hundreds of other mad things I've heard pureblood supremacists scream about."

Hermione chewed on her lip, and didn't even fuss at him about not using either of Voldemort's names. "What do you remember?"

"He talked about you," Ron responded, inclining his head down toward Harry.

_"Me?"_

"Yeah. Said stuff like, _it never came down to a real contest of wands_, or _in the end, __the Dark Lord accomplished more in his life than Potter did_, or _if he'd just been allowed to keep chasing immortality, he could've done great things_. As if him being a, a _stark raving mad murderer _and a bloody cult leader was just the price to be paid for true brilliance."

Harry clenched his fists until his nails left distinct marks on each palm. Even now, it was tough to push past the anger and loathing that sparked and hissed in him at their enemies' propaganda—one of the many reasons why he'd gotten out of a job where he could rough them up beyond reason as fast as he could. And _still_ the mindless lamenting and poisonous glares of adults who would've gladly seen him dead as a child or even a _baby_ got under his skin after too long spent in court or prison.

_A real contest of wands, huh? Just wait until I get my hands on him. I'm not seventeen anymore_—_I know some really good spells now and I'm not afraid to use them on some spineless, evil_—

_No._

_Focus. Think. Why would Rosier say those things?_

"I wish we hadn't had to reveal the existence of Voldemort's Horcruxes in court," Hermione sighed. "I wish it every single day. To hell with Veritaserum—they should have taken as true the word of every single person who suffered that day and all those months at Hogwarts! The things we saw... the things we had to do... and now the information is out there, and anyone with enough training and, and _evil_ could just do it again, and we'd never know."

"Rosier could have been in the courtroom that week," Harry added. "So many of those trials were public, by popular demand. He hadn't been caught doing anything sneaky yet in 1998. He might have heard about the Horcruxes and done research on his own. Just because we only found it in one book... I doubt every book on them is known by our Ministry or any other."

"If he _did_ hear about them though, why not just make one and keep mum about anything related to it? If _He_ hadn't practically spilled the beans to Slughorn back in his day, Dumbledore would've never found out and done all that research to get rid of them all." Ron snorted. "You'd think Rosier would've at least learned from his hero's example."

Hermione's snort was a mirror of his. "Because being clever or powerful doesn't automatically translate to having common sense. So many good and evil people, magical or not, have done terrible things but still been undone because they were complete _idiots _in how they went about it."

Yet Harry still twisted his hands and wondered. _What does he stand to gain? Telling the last people to destroy Horcruxes that another might be in the wings is a good way to get thrown into Azkaban for life with _no _Horcrux. Rosier's clearly cruel, and he may not be a genius, but he's _not_ stupid either. What are we missing? What does he want out of this...?_

And like lightning, the last question rocketed around in his brain and shot down through his limbs, forcing him to focus on it alone. _What Rosier wants_.

"Ron, Hermione... I think we're looking at this the wrong way. We're focusing on the possibility of Rosier making _himself_ a Horcrux _and_ on the reality of him being devoted to Voldemort and what he stood for, but we're not looking at what those might mean _together_."

They both stared at him like he was speaking Parseltongue. If he hadn't known for sure that he was speaking plain English at the moment, he might have given his Temporal Slicer a whimsical spin back a few moments to check.

"Mate. What do you mean 'together'? Like, they both matter?"

Hermione paled. "Are you saying that Rosier might not have made a Horcrux at all?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Harry affirmed. "Think about it: _maybe_ someone like Bellatrix or Lucius Malfoy would've made a Horcrux, if they knew how and had the skill. And _maybe_ Voldemort would've been okay with Bellatrix having a Horcrux too, or someone like Snape—but not Malfoy, he was too much of a loose cannon. And if he wasn't going to trust even his highest-ranked Death Eaters to know his secret and share it, why the hell would he allow some nobody to do the same, even if the nobody went to the trouble of going back in time to save him from me?"

Ron whistled appreciatively. "Yeah... no, you're right. Someone like Rosier, _He'd_ trick him into spilling all about his shiny new Horcrux, then kill him and get rid of it while he was floating around all spirit-like. And _then_ Robards would murder us when the timeline did backflips and caved in on itself."

"Right. And Rosier knows this. We don't know how much he knows about our Department, or even if he knows what he's got isn't just some souped-up Time-Turner—but we can at least assume he suspects, since most of the actual Time-Turners are still destroyed, that this one isn't your ordinary five-hour-limit trinket. If he's already left our reality then he _definitely_ knows."

"Or... someone could've told him how they work, to speed him along. D'you think there might be a spy in Corrective Measures?"

Harry and Hermione thought about it for a moment—then dismissed the idea in tandem. Anything was possible, but it was highly unlikely that any of their friends, colleagues or prospective department picks had spilled the beans now about an organization that, as far as any of them could tell, had been quietly working behind the scenes to ensure the stability of the Here and Now for the past hundred years or more. Even Blaise Zabini, one of the less unpleasant Slytherins they worked with, seemed utterly dedicated to his work and its unseen impact.

"All right, no spy. So then, he just picked this stuff up and chose now to make a move, to go to Merlin-knows-where?"

"The 1920s or 1930s," Hermione reminded him. "So at least seventy or eighty years away... perhaps to the time Voldemort was still in school? Right when he started murdering people?"

Harry shook his head. "In the latter part of the thirties, sure. But any earlier and Tom Riddle's a kid—or he hasn't even been born. He'd be better off shooting for the late 1940s or 1950s, when Grindelwald was locked up, Tom had graduated, and he was out and gathering followers with two or three Horcruxes to his name."

"Does _he_ know that, though?"

There was a long pause, punctuated only by a half-asleep _meow_ as old Crookshanks rolled over in his corner bed.

"Oh my god," Harry sighed. "He doesn't know. Of _course_ he doesn't know. Voldemort never even told his Death Eaters the full details of his life or how old he was..."

"...and the ones who went to school with him and _would_ know are either dead, locked up beyond Rosier's reach, or too scared to go reminiscing about Tom Riddle, just like Professor Slughorn was," Hermione finished. Her brown eyes shone like she'd just cracked a particularly-difficult spell. "But if he's gotten to whatever time, how long will it take him to realize he's made a mistake? It's not like he would run into Merope Gaunt by chance."

"Nor would he want to," Ron pointed out. "Part of—argh, fine, of _Voldemort's_ whole thing was that his dad was a berk and his mum died, right? Rosier'd have to be pretty heartless to run across Merope Gaunt and let her die _again_ just so his idol could grow up the exact same way."

"Ron, we have to do the same thing any time we travel back and run across people we love that we know can't be saved."

"Well, _yeah_, but we had to be trained to be that cold. So I still think..."

It was shit like this that made Harry's scar ache with phantom pain.

"Please," he interjected when it looked like their brainstorming might be derailed by an argument. "We've got to stay focused. There's a lot I have to do after I'm briefed but before I go after Rosier. I'm sure he hasn't made a Horcrux, but I'm less sure about why he's going back to try and find Voldemort with the knowledge of them—and I don't think he's just going back to warn him that they all get destroyed. Is there anything else we can draw from what we know?"

Hermione sat back. "We shouldn't rule that out. It _could_ be as simple as Rosier telling Tom Riddle which of his enemies learn about or destroy his Horcruxes, so Voldemort might wipe us out by killing our parents or grandparents... although since none of us have winked out of existence or had our memories altered yet, maybe that isn't quite it."

"Give it time," Ron muttered.

"He _could_ go back and advise Voldemort to make another Horcrux...?" Hermione ventured.

Harry swiftly vetoed that idea, feeling only the briefest pang of pain as he elaborated. "Back when I was not-quite-dead, Dumbledore posited that Voldemort's soul was already really unstable the night he tried to kill me, and that that was the only reason it split off again without him knowing. Voldemort himself said he'd pushed the boundaries of magic the night he returned to physical form... I think it would've been too dangerous for him to make a real seventh Horcrux. It might've actually killed him. Although..." He looked around, cast _Muffliato _briefly and instinctively before finishing his sentence. "...it's not like anyone except us knows that I was his Horcrux for a bit too."

"Well, _we _know all that." Ron looked smug, proud of them. "But there's nothing saying Rosier knows _any_ of that. The only thing he ever seemed desperate about was the lost chance to prove himself to his precious Dark Lord. I'll bet he just gave the Slicer a spin-and-throw and hoped for the best."

_We can only hope_.

Although they tossed theories back and forth for two hours, making and remaking tea (and adding sweets for Ron), none of them could come up with anything more concrete than what they already had. When half-past two came around, the trio decided they had enough information to move forward with, at least until Robards spoke with Cho and gave Harry a firm date for his departure. With the matter tabled for the night, all that was left to settle was where they'd all be sleeping.

"Erm... Hermione upstairs in her bed, you and I down here on the seats?"

"Oh no, Harry, I wouldn't want to be rude. Plus it's hard to get to sleep when it's so late..."

Ron solved things in a snap. "We can make one of those blanket fort thingies you taught me about, and then we can _all_ sleep down here and get back to work in the morning."

The vote was unanimous.

_10 April 2008_

_Forest of Dean_

_Gloucestershire, United Kingdom_

"Are you sure you've got everything?"

"If I was any more sure I'd sub in doing predictions for Trelawney," Harry grumbled. It was the third or fourth time Hermione had asked him that question in two hours. "I get that you're nervous, but I _swear_ I've got this."

"Got all your necessities?" Ron cut in, grinning ear-to-ear. "Your wand? Your water and food rations? Warmest cloak? Favorite clean boxers? An object with the blood of your enemy on it?"

Harry sent an itching hex at his head, though at least some of those queries were quite valid. To forestall any further teasing or badgering, he carefully levitated the object in question out of his black robes so both of them could see it.

"No problems there."

Mercifully, they didn't ask any more questions about that.

Hermione glanced around them, shivering a bit. She hadn't brought thick enough outer robes for spring in the Forest of Dean, thinking it couldn't possibly be worse than it had been in the winter ten years prior—and she was now reaping the consequences. "It's so strange... being back here again."

Ron grunted awkwardly; it wasn't immediately clear if it was from the (darker) shared memories or from finally being hit by Harry's hex. But even if it was from the former, he knew—they _all_ knew—that this was perhaps the safest forest to use such dangerous magic in, since it did not shelter many other _people_ most of the time.

For his part, Harry gave himself another once-over to make sure everything was present and stable for his stroll through the portal the Temporal Slicer would create. It wouldn't do to lose something to nonexistence.

"All right," he said at last. "I think I'm ready, so... I'm off."

"Harry—wait."

"_Hermione_, what?"

She hurried over, and quickly slipped something small and cold and gold over his head, to settle around his neck. With a little jolt, Harry recognized the charmed lockets he and his friends typically wore when one of them was gone on a mission. _I can't believe I nearly forgot mine_.

"Thanks," he murmured, tucking it in and out of sight. "And sorry I snapped. I guess I'm a little anxious."

"Imagine how _we_ feel." Ron stepped forward and clasped hands with him, gripping tightly. His clear blue eyes searched Harry's green ones, gave the rest of him a once-over as though memorizing him. "Want us to say any goodbyes?"

Harry was actually content knowing that most of the wizarding world wouldn't even notice he was ever gone with any luck—but he knew who Ron was actually referring to, and so closed his eyes and thought more carefully. _Teddy, __Luna, Ginny... Neville._ Did he have any messages for them? Anything to get off his chest, in case this mission was his last?

A minute passed, then two, before he shook his head. Even his current hostility towards his (most recent) ex seemed trivial.

"...Nah. Just tell them I'll see them soon."

"Sure."

Though this was far from the first time Harry had traveled back in time (or Skipped, as Hermione preferred to say), he found himself doing the same thing he'd done the first time, in that controlled field in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries: scanning his friends' features just as thoroughly as they did his, as though this might be the last time he ever stood with them. It was far easier to brave the unknown when they were assigned to go with him—but he'd known in his heart from the moment Robards had asked for a volunteer that this would be a solo job, and that he was the best person for it.

Looking back, he couldn't say who moved first—but a second later they were all caught in a warm three-way embrace, hugging tight enough to bruise each other's ribs. They swayed back and forth, giving each other reassurances and swearing they would come back together—that not even Time could keep them apart forever. Hermione was teary when they pulled back, and even Ron kept swallowing more than normal.

"I'm off," Harry repeated, more strongly. And he turned around before he could lose his nerve, and pulled the ringed blue sphere out of one of his robe pockets. Fortunately it was already smeared with a little of Rosier's blood since the two objects had been sharing the same space—that was all he needed to ensure that his path followed the other man's. With a solid toss, his Temporal Slicer soared into the air in front of him, spun to a halt between two tall trees, and yawned wide enough to open a portal that spat sparks and lightning at its owner.

"Bye, Harry!"

"Good luck, mate."

Harry nodded once to show he'd heard, then retrieved and pocketed his Slicer, squared his shoulders and walked into the blue wisps and blinding lightning. The way home closed behind him and vanished like it'd never been there, smoother than any Cloak he'd ever owned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I should dispel with my 'distant author voice' and explain the backstory behind Felix Rosier while it's still early in the fanfic.
> 
> This past summer, when this idea was still among the others tormenting my dreams, I wanted Harry to have an enemy with minimal existing connection to him, but who could still pass as a canon character. It didn't take long for me to decide to use the surname of a Death Eater or otherwise Dark-aligned family, and fortunately I remembered Karkaroff mentioning an "Evan Rosier" during the record of his trial in GoF.
> 
> I knew Evan was dead, but figured he'd died so long ago that it wouldn't be unreasonable for him to have a son. Not long after that, I decided the name "Felix" sounded perfect... annnd then a random Google search weeks later told me that a funny little program called "Hogwarts Mystery" already **had** a young Slytherin Felix Rosier who was approximately 11 years older than Harry. _Whoa._
> 
> Needless to say, I haven't played Hogwarts Mystery (yet) and my Felix Rosier is not their Felix Rosier. I've borrowed his approximate age and house from the Wiki and that's it. I haven't even read the article to see what the heck the real boy is on about. So—hope you enjoy what is basically _still_ a tagged OC.]
> 
> The end-of-year celebrations approach, friends, and certain young authors must carve out time to appease their relatives as others carve dinner birds. With that in mind, Chapter 4 will be posted on Friday, January 10.


	4. The Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any improvements on Latin-based spells beyond what the Internet can provide is appreciated. A hundred thousand thanks to Sixta for more appropriate German terms of endearment and mechanical improvements for this chapter!

_10 April 1925_

_Hallerbos Forest_

_Halle, Belgium_

_We are so fucked,_ Harry thought wildly.

The fire licked threateningly at their heels, preventing a physical escape—and the shimmering blue waves of Anti-Apparition curled all around them, preventing a magical one. Neither would be as threatening or concerning if the most feared Dark Lord in all of Europe wasn't staring them down with an unsettling smile on his face.

It was a flagrant violation of one of a Corrector's Primary Rules to deliberately encounter, harm or influence Important People without permission, and he couldn't have smashed that rule to pieces any harder if he'd actually _tried_.

"L-Lord Grindelwald..." Phaedra whispered from just behind him. Though he couldn't see her complexion, he felt a jolt of horror at how she shook like a leaf at his back. "I-I, I was just..."

Gellert Grindelwald made a _tsk_ing sound and tilted his head, effectively silencing her before actually uttering a word. Although his smile lingered, his true feelings glinted at them from his eyes—the disappointment in them was clear as day.

"My dear, if our accommodations weren't to your liking, you only needed to reach out to one of your professors."

"Th-they were cursing _children_," Phaedra stammered. "For wanting to go home, for being afraid. They would have cursed _me_."

"Nonsense! Some of my professors can be a bit... overzealous... but you have nothing to fear from them, so long as you are behaving. You were selected from a prestigious group to attend, _Liebling_, so I have high expectations for your conduct. That means if you are unsatisfied with anything at all you _must_ inform me or one of my staff. No need at all to go darting out into the wild, where you might run across... _strangers_."

It was the first time Grindelwald had acknowledged that he and Phaedra weren't alone; Harry planted himself more firmly in front of her and met the other man's curious glance with blankness, not giving him an inch to work with.

For her part, the poor young woman didn't move or speak again. Harry glanced around at her instinctively, to ensure she really _hadn't_ been hit with a silent _Petrificus_ while he hadn't been looking—and although a cursory glance told him she hadn't, her persistently-unhealthy pallor and the way her mouth soundlessly opened and closed told him _more_, and jabbed even harder at his chest than it had before.

_This_ was the man she was running from: the wizard who, far apart from terrorizing an entire continent and hurting people Harry had later cared for, had snatched her away from her home and placed her in a school that made Voldemort's twisted version of Hogwarts sound like a child's inferior reproduction. _She's terrified of him_, he thought, _and she still managed to get this far away from whatever twisted shit he's up to in this country_.

It was easier than ever to superimpose the image of Luna over Phaedra now—sixteen year-old Luna, fresh from weeks of imprisonment and torture at Malfoy Manor.

"Well, it's no matter now," Grindelwald went on lightly, waving one blue-sleeved arm out to the side. "You still have some time to speak with Professor Meijer before curfew, once you've come back with me." And he gave Phaedra such an intense, piercing look that Harry could _feel_ the unnatural spike of ozone in the air, the ripple of the barrier around them, and the way the older man _crushed_ and _pushed_ and bent his young runaway's will to match his own, so that she might open her mouth and acquiesce to his demands.

A fire completely unlike the one heating their backs sparked and grew in Harry's gut, raw and protective. The insistent rules about noninterference shrank to the back of his mind. He saw with complete clarity what would have happened if he hadn't been here: Phaedra would have been magically overwhelmed, recaptured, and marched back to Grindelwald's School of Might, and then been tortured and tortured until first her spirit and then her body died there. Grindelwald had done many, _many_ terrible things during his own 'magic is might' campaign, but Harry'd had no idea the man had had the nerve, the actual fucking _gall_, to pursue and capture and torment innocent _children_.

_...Not on my fucking watch, he won't. Not with_ _her_.

"Yeah, _that_ won't be happening," he declared, making sure he projected every bit of stubborn displeasure he felt.

Grindelwald pivoted very, very slowly to look (_really_ look) directly at him for the first time. There was another glint of curiosity in his icy eyes, but it was mostly smothered by a high-minded dismissive attitude that reminded Harry of every arrogant enemy he'd ever made.

"You don't look like a Lovegood..." he mused. "And we've certainly heard no dissension from Phaedra's family about her attendance. What, then, makes you think you can override the wishes of her Headmaster?"

"_Wellll_..." Harry gave Phaedra an unnecessary look, just so the other wizard could see her head shaking frantically in her protector's direction. "From the way my new friend here looks like she's just swallowed soured chocolate, I think I can safely guess that _you're_ not her real Headmaster."

The fire at his back seemed to get hotter, and the Dark Lord's face stiffened; inwardly, he cursed his excessive need to mouth off to anyone bigger and stronger than him. _Easy, Harry,_ a voice in his head that sounded very much like Ron warned. _Don't challenge anyone you aren't absolutely sure you can beat._

_A bit too late for that._

"Miss Lovegood is a wild talent," Grindelwald expounded, and he swept both his hands wide this time, like he was inviting them in for an embrace. The displeasure that made his face look carved from marble melted away in his sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Not as common of a thing as one might guess, dear stranger. Her empathy for raw magic and skill in more basic subjects makes her one of my brightest new prospects... which is why I invited her to attend my School of Might."

"...'Invited'."

"Yes."

Phaedra grabbed hold of Harry's left arm and squeezed it tight.

"And if she says _no thanks_?" Harry pressed.

In response, Grindelwald withdrew his wand for the first time.

The bluebell flowers still intact shrank back around them, and the air hummed with power as that infamous bit of elder was revealed. The Deathstick was just as long, thin and nondescript as Harry remembered, belying its immense strength and versatility—just the sight of it sent creeping chills up and down his spine, even as his robe pockets buzzed pleasantly. Grindelwald did not point the wand at them, but he didn't need to—the threat of its use, of his domination, was implicit in the serious new slant to his blond eyebrows.

"Well," he stated softly, "I believe you said it best, didn't you—'that will not be happening'. She will return with me to her school tonight... whether she wishes to or not."

Harry exhaled, resigned.

"Right... that's kind of what I thought you'd say."

He half-turned to Phaedra again, and ordered: "Stay behind me, no matter what. If he gets past me for more than three seconds, _run_."

"_Please _don't let him take me back to that place," she implored.

"He won't touch a hair on your head, Phaedra."

And he pulled his holly wand smoothly back out of his sleeve. As Grindelwald's left brow climbed still higher on his face, Harry used it to wrench a branch from a nearby tree—and then struck first, wasting no time.

_"Reducto_._"_

The loose branch immediately exploded into smaller shards and fragments, which he sent hurtling at his foe.

The Elder Wand whipped quickly and violently through the air in a straight line; Grindelwald swiftly dispelled the threatening wooden shards by reducing them to gently floating sawdust without batting an eye.

Undaunted, Harry sent a Tongue-Tying Curse at him, then followed it up immediately with a Jelly-Legs Jinx and an overpowered _Petrificus Totalus_—he hadn't for a second expected the other man to be affected by the first spell, nor was taking him down with just one spell his overall intention. He was fighting a man who had complete mastery over the unbeatable wand; it would be best to keep that man and that wand on the defensive at all times.

Grindelwald batted those spells away too, with two quick swishes of his wand that became consecutive _Protego_s—and unlike Harry, did so without uttering the spell names at all. "Curious," he murmured, as he sent another inconvenient hex sailing back towards its owner. "Speed, but no power."

"_Conjunctivus. __Expulso. Flagrante._"

"Do you mean to insult me?" the Dark Lord asked. As he dispelled the first curse and swiftly sidestepped the second, his expression changed to 'weary tedium'. Only when the third spell hit his wand, forcing him to encase his hand in a thin film of ice to counteract the heat emitting from it, did he look briefly, slightly perturbed—but only that he hadn't expected the indirect form of attack. "Attacking me with spells like these? These are _schoolchildren's_ spells, and you are no child. Is this meant to be a lesson for Miss Lovegood?"

"Not really," said Harry, while hurling another _Reducto_ toward the earth at the other man's feet. "More of a lesson for you..."

He broke off. After the blast, the spell should have temporarily blinded Grindelwald when all that dirt sprayed upwards—but Harry hadn't realized just how _fast_ his opponent was until he waved his _wand-free_ hand and blew the mild visual impediment away with a strong gust of wind.

_What the hell?_ he thought, half-admiringly despite himself. _Was that a wandless _Ventus Maxima?_ I love that bloody spell._

Instead of advancing, casting offensive spells of his own for the first time in the lull, Grindelwald paused—not knowing how Harry inwardly celebrated. "Let me teach you something instead, young man. A teacher's mark of success lies mainly in their pupil's understanding: that is, whether they can repeat and replicate the concepts they have been taught. You claim to be giving me a lesson—but in what? What have I learned? It is not why you are dueling me this way."

"Okay, I admit it... you're right, some of these spells _are _meant to insult you."

Phaedra twitched behind him, like she wanted to laugh but didn't dare.

"Perhaps. Or—" Another _Protego_ flew up, stronger, to counter the Bat-Bogey Hex Harry threw just so he might tell Ginny about it someday. "—perhaps the thing you seek to teach me is in what you _aren't_ doing, rather than in what you _are_. You send weak spells at me to mask your fear. You may pretend, but I see in your eyes that you know who I am. Does my presence scare you, boy? My superior spellwork?"

_Nope._ "Yep," Harry agreed, ignoring Phaedra's redoubled (painful) grip on his arm to fire an unsuccessful _Expelliarmus_ at his enemy's wand arm. _Just what I want you to think I'm thinking. 'You got it in one. Just trying to survive.'_

But Grindelwald shook his head. "I think not," he whispered. "You fear me, as you should—but you fear more than me. Yes... you fear _the wand_."

Harry stiffened.

_Shite_.

The game was up—the man was mad, but not far off. He'd gotten Grindelwald to mimic him with simple spells to try and control the battle, relying on his enemy's obvious disdain for Harry's presence. The longer the Elder Wand and its owner were focused on non-catastrophic spells, the better a chance Harry and Phaedra had to get away... but now that Grindelwald was cottoning on to his ploy, there was no telling what he would send their way next.

"Have you heard the rumors, then? Heard whispers, in this forest of yours...? Or perhaps Miss Lovegood gave you a clue? They all speak true. My wand cannot be bested; _I_ cannot be bested."

Harry scoffed, injected dismissive scorn of his own into his voice. "No one is unbeatable... _Headmaster_."

The ice-blue eyes gleamed. "...Let us see."

With a twitch of his wand several tiny blades of grass were ripped from the ground, transfigured into knives and hurtled at them.

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," Harry chanted, then followed up with a quick transforming spell of his own to turn the hovering blades into angry stinging wasps the size of baby Crups. Just as quickly as he Banished the angry swarm back toward Grindelwald and relished in the ones that made contact, the frustrating man made them a murder of crows and jabbed them back his way; Phaedra shrieked as the birds closed in.

"Wait, it's fine, don't move—!"

_"Protego!"_ she shouted anyway, sounding uncommonly frantic.

Luckily her frantic wand-waving worked wonders better than the average student's would: several birds bounced violently off the bright silver shield that formed around herself and Harry, and the impressive strength of the spell sent some of the crows back toward Grindelwald, giving Harry enough time to subtly put out some of the flames behind their backs. Then he was back at it, changing more flowers into darts and jets of flame, then destroying or dispelling the mountain cats and poisonous vipers that were sent back at him. They traded more complex transfigurations every few seconds, getting closer to one another with every volley.

"Do you see?" the Dark Lord explained eagerly over the din of clashing light; "_that_ was her power at work! Even the low-level spell _Protego _bends to her will, accomplishing far more than the simpler shields and weak magic she was tested on at her _other_ school. Returning her there would stifle her power—only at _my_ school can her repertoire of spells grow properly."

_I'm pretty sure that spell was so good because she's just terrified of birds_, Harry thought, rolling his eyes and not bothering to respond to that rubbish. To her though, he kept his voice low and as gentle as he could make it: "Your spell was good—but I can't let you draw his attention right now. _Please_ stay behind me no matter what, all right? No spells unless I'm down."

Phaedra's eyes shone with worry. "I want to help. He says he's stronger than you—than either of us."

"Well if you go ahead and believe that, then we've lost before the battle even starts, haven't we?"

He winked at her startled expression, and barked _"Protego Maxima!"_ to catch the Bone-Shattering Hex aimed at his back without a backward glance.

When he _did_ turn around, Grindelwald was... clapping.

"Impressive. Your methods are crude—you are limited by speaking these mediocre spells—but I thought you had less skill. Not so! Your intuition and ingenuity are excellent. I truly did not expect you to last this long."

_Of course you didn't_.

"I think I've indulged you enough—" Grindelwald continued, twirling the Elder Wand in a familiar crude pattern of his own—but he frowned when Harry interrupted him with a short, loud laugh. "...what amuses you, boy?"

"Sorry, sorry... just... I'm not well-versed in the rules of dueling. I didn't realize you wanted _me_ to cast wordlessly too."

He slashed blindingly fast at the air in front of him, sending two enhanced Cutting Curses and one Knee-Reversal Hex at Grindelwald between one breath and the next without uttering a word—and finally, _finally_, drawing blood while knocking the man off his feet. Only then did he chance a smirk.

"If that's all you wanted, why didn't you just ask?"

The children's shrieking pierced his ears unpleasantly—the cries of the unbearably young, tired and hungry souls cursed to live in this run-down place. He grimaced at the unholy chorus; it was a perfect reminder of why he despised children and had grown up as fast as he possibly could, so as not to have to associate with any.

_But the one I'm looking for was no ordinary child_.

His Disillusionment Charm shimmered dangerously in the chilly April air, far too similar to a heat haze to hold up to any serious scrutiny by fellow magic-users. Fortunately, Muggles were stupid and unobservant; they wouldn't have a clue he'd been among them and gone until he was _long_ gone. He hadn't even bothered with a Notice-Me-Not.

_Where is he?_

Led by a scowling woman in bullet-gray and herded from the back by a scowling woman in black, the pack of Muggle children tottered noisily along the street toward a waiting set of wagons chafing four impatient horses. Their chatter only picked up in volume upon spotting the animals snorting and pawing at the cobblestone—evidently this bunch were not used to much time outside, much less interacting with something besides one another. Watching them, the wizard's face twisted even further in disgust than it had when he'd first spotted them; his hand clenched around his wand.

What he would give to be able to wipe these scum away... and perhaps, in the process, rid the world he'd come from of more than a few of their dirty-blooded descendants...

But no. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself when he knew he was likely being followed. He'd made it this far without being stopped—it was time to do what he'd traveled back to this time to do.

_As soon as I find the boy._

But as he scanned, and glared, and quivered under the invisibility spell, Felix Rosier kept coming up short. There was no sign of the ink-black hair, dark eyes, or unnaturally pale complexion which described his quarry. No matter how many passes his own gray eyes made over these brats, the boy who was superior to them did not materialize.

He didn't know much about how orphanages operated—_he_ had come from a good, (mostly) stable family, with generations of history and prestige, and a healthy respect for the Dark. But he could hazard a guess that even a deathly ill or otherwise imperfect child wouldn't be left to fend for themselves while the rest of the children and all of the caretakers went away to Merlin-knew-where.

Unfortunately, that left only one rational solution:

_The boy is not here_.

Harry wasn't given much time to savor the shocked look on Grindelwald's face.

Barely a minute after the iron smell of blood wafted through their overheated section of the forest, the Dark Lord regained his footing and advanced on his enemies once more. Harry had to use some of his own magical aura to free his left arm from Phaedra's punishing grip and push her backwards with him, keeping her close without sacrificing a free hand he might need later.

He expected the madman to speak—to curse Harry for getting through his considerable defenses, to give him backhanded praise for wiping the bored look off his opponent's face, _something_—so he was startled when Grindelwald said nothing at all. Instead he snapped his wand forward and sent an enormous sphere of water at them, blindingly fast and cold as the dark, focused gleam in his eyes.

_Shite... he's not playing anymore. Revealing that _I_ was must've _really_ pissed him off._

There was little time to defend himself and his charge—so Harry chose well. He pulled some bluebells out of the ground in front of Phaedra and made them a wall of stone with a well-timed _Duro_ that expanded and climbed, high and higher still, to block the sphere from going anywhere near her. The icy water engulfed him seconds later.

Instinct nearly killed him; he had to force himself not to struggle, not to breathe in immediately. The water pulsed and contracted around him. His eyes bulged at the pressure; his lungs seared, aching for fresh air. For an agonizing eternity, he forgot his wand, his mission, his purpose—himself. He was nothing but the merest animal, fighting to escape and survive.

In the hazy, painful darkness, moments before he could breathe in and invite water where it didn't belong, a memory came to him: Voldemort of twelve years prior, twisting and writhing in a globe of water in the Ministry of Magic. _Dumbledore's magic_, he thought, and felt the thought of Dumbledore and his warmth and power buoying his flagging mind like phoenix song, encouraging him to _quit panicking and think_.

As best he could, anyway, with all this water trying to drown him.

_No, Potter. Focus. Voldemort escaped this very spell in 1996. You're his equal, for better or worse. How did he do it?_

Crashing sounds filtered slowly through the liquid, and Harry almost went wild with realization as his companion's frightened shouts followed: outside of his would-be watery grave, Grindelwald was tearing down his stone wall, using his incapacitation to get at Phaedra. The flames behind her were out, but the Anti-Apparition field was still very much intact—and he had no idea if she even _could_ Apparate, she might be underage—she might not be licensed—

She would still _die_, if he didn't escape this trap.

Like a glimmer of light in the murk it came to him: the solution to his predicament, the answer he'd already half-thought: _Apparate. Voldemort Apparated out of the water prison, so he could possess me_.

But there was no one here for Harry to possess; and even if he'd had that kind of power, he would not use it to save his own life. No—there was a better way to do this, though it was a bit flashier, and it had to be done _now_, or else he might as well surrender to the growing heat and hum of the round stone in his pocket...

With Herculean effort, he brought his hands together as hard as possible in the sphere and screamed the strongest appropriate incantation he knew in his quivering mind.

_Ignis._

The sphere of water bulged, then exploded out and away from him with a pulse of heat from the overpowered, pure fire spell. As steam curled in the air and the rest of the fire burning Hallerbos' bluebells was put out, Harry choked and coughed and beat unprofessionally on himself until he'd dispelled as much of the excess water from his system as possible. His eyes streamed with pain, and he thanked whatever lucky stars he might've had that his glasses somehow hadn't slipped off in the madness of the last few minutes.

_BOOM._

"No, please—!"

Harry blinked tears away in record time, looking frantically at his stone wall—which no longer existed. The last blast he'd heard was Grindelwald finally piercing through its middle, sending the whole thing down in a shower of rubble; the cry he'd heard was Luna's lookalike, staggering backwards with her wand held high. Panic colder than the water he'd been submerged in washed over him, and he struggled to get to his feet, to put himself between them.

"Nowhere left to hide, Miss Lovegood!" Grindelwald sang; his wand blasted rocks away into the trees, or reduced them to a size he could crush under his boots on the way to her. His golden hair shone in the dark, with not a bit out of place despite his earlier tumble. "And we've made enough of a mess in this place, wouldn't you say? Time to return to school."

"I am _not going back there_!" Phaedra bellowed—and with violent flicks of her wand she sent two, three, _four_ curses and hexes almost point-blank into her former captor's face. Harry heard _"Confringo!"_ and_ "Reducto!"_ before he finally got sturdy enough to start running, his heart thundering in his ears.

The girl's 'headmaster' conjured more water to combat the fiery orange explosion that detonated so close to his face, but it was a close thing: evidently he was more in control when he dueled at a distance. But even the slight disadvantage of surprise wasn't enough to catch him completely off guard. The only warning he gave his prospective student for his next move was a slow, cruel grin.

Still racing urgently towards them, Harry raised his wand—too slowly.

"_Confractus,_" Grindelwald practically purred, speaking a spell aloud for the first time.

Phaedra's yelp was unnecessary; it was obvious that she'd had no time to dodge or put up a proper Shield Charm for herself by the sickening _snap_ that followed. Her wand arm had been broken; as her mind absorbed the knowledge and pain, her face went gray and she sagged in place. Her trusty stick rolled into the nearby flowers. And even as she whimpered, disarmed and vulnerable, the monstrous man smiled wider, and lifted the Elder Wand again.

"NO!"

This time the howl came from Harry. It surged up in him like a live wire, boomed like a thunderclap: a storm of righteous anger and targeted menace. The anger triggered more memories of the graveyard—the Department of Mysteries—the battles at Hogwarts—all the times he'd been mostly helpless, a kid in over his head. Helpless and outclassed, just like Phaedra was.

_And she's not protected by any shield of love._

Anger hardened into determination, and that made him raise his wand (with more memories rocketing to the forefront of his mind) and brandish it like he was cracking a whip.

_"YOUR FIGHT IS WITH **ME**, GRINDELWALD!" _he roared, before completing in his head the incantation he'd already half-conjured into being: _INCARCEROUS INFLAMMARE!_

Twin ropes of fire shot out of both Harry's holly wand and his outstretched left hand—they twisted through the air like snakes, eventually wrapping around their target's arms up to the wrist with scalding hisses.

As Phaedra crawled slowly and painfully out of his reach, Grindelwald hissed with pain—but then he froze, blue eyes going wide and wider still. Even as the flaming rope licked at his blue-black sleeves, burning them away, he only stared at the tricky little spell with something that looked very much like shock and confusion. And when he turned to stare at Harry, his expression didn't change in the slightest.

"_You_..."

"Back. _Up_," Harry demanded; to make his point, he yanked pointedly on the fire-rope, dragging the man in his direction. To his own surprise, Grindelwald came more easily than he'd expected.

"Very well, very well—if you'll answer a question of mine... Who are you, little would-be savior?"

..._What?_

"I thought you were no one of note," Grindelwald mused. He seemed to _still_ be unconcerned with the fire and the rapidly-pinkening skin of his forearms; all of his focus and interest was finally bent toward his foe, and for the first time his eyes appeared to sparkle. "A boy playing hero for a girl. But that isn't so, is it...? You are far more than what you appear to be."

"I beg your pardon." Harry made sure that sounded as rude as he meant it to. "I'm just an ordinary wizard with a particular grudge against bullies. And murderers."

_"Ordinary?"_ He spat the word; his accent weaved around it and made it sound like a curse. "No, not knowing this magic. _He_ taught it to you, did he not, knowing you would come across me? You learned this trick from him—from Albus Dumbledore."

Phaedra let out a little gasp from behind them.

Harry didn't hear it at all. He was blinking rapidly, feeling like he'd missed a step going downstairs. It took an enormous effort to put a convincingly puzzled look on his face and say, "Sorry, _who_?"

Grindelwald snapped the fingers of his wand hand and _Incarcerous Inflammare_ immediately transformed into falling ash at his feet. "Don't feign ignorance," he retorted, with only the slightest wince at the burns on his arms. "I know that spell; I know precious few people who know of it, or use it as often or as well as _he_ did. You are Albus' acolyte. Why else would you be here, on the edges of _my_ territory, if not to snatch back a pupil in his name...?"

Harry wanted to goggle at the Dark Lord _so badly_. Where before Grindelwald had sounded bored and looked completely in control, with only occasional flashes of ruthlessness or cruelty, the slightest mention of Dumbledore seemed to unhinge him: his sparkling eyes flashed, strands of his hair stood out from the whole, and his overall tone was wild and harried. He even glanced at the trees around them, as if he expected Harry's old headmaster to pop into being near one at any second.

_He is a certifiable nutter_, Harry reminded himself, while he put himself between Grindelwald and Phaedra once more. _And yet_. It'd be a lie to say he _hadn't_ been thinking of Dumbledore when he cast the fire-rope. When Grindelwald had used the same spell on _him_ that Dumbledore had used against Voldemort in the Ministry, he couldn't help but think of the other spells the headmaster had brought to bear against that monster. He'd been angry and... well. Every time he got angry in a duel, a powerful, personal spell usually rocketed out of his wand before he could get ahold of himself.

_Focus._

There was a reason Robards was constantly after him to control his temper.

"I'm not anybody's anything. Actually—if you aim your wand at this girl one more time, I'll _become_ your worst fucking nightmare. But I don't know about any 'Albus' or any 'acolyte'."

The blond dismissed Harry's threat with the barest wave of his non-dominant hand; his gaze didn't stray for a moment. "She will come with me, soon enough. But _you_ will need to accompany her after all."

"Like hell I—wait, _what_?"

"You are valuable," Grindelwald murmured, so softly it was almost to himself; only the power of his voice carried the words across the short distance between them. "Fierce, cunning with your simple spell choices, _talented_ even—you sought to fool me into not taking you seriously as an opponent, and you nearly succeeded. Hiding under an ill-constructed mask of obscurity, certainly, but powerful all the same. And Albus deigned to teach you something of _his_... it would be foolish to kill you outright, and moreso to let you leave."

_Oh, no. No no no no. __He can't be saying what I think he's saying_.

Harry tamped down on the anxiety that flared up as he processed _let you leave_. The only thing worse than a Grindelwald committed to killing them was a Grindelwald committed to _acquiring_ them.

"I'm not a _trophy_," he snarled. "And I don't belong to anyone. If you think _you're_ taking me anywhere I don't want to be, you've lost the plot."

His enemy didn't even lift an eyebrow at the venom in Harry's voice: in fact, he lowered his wand and finally closed the distance between them, giving the time-traveler a once-over as he approached. Their eyes met again—Harry felt a new pressure curl around his mind and smother the edges, and couldn't help the arm-twitch and gasp that came out. _He's a Legilimens_, he thought wildly; _he's not just good at reading faces. __Grindelwald's a fucking Legilimens!_

At once he shut everything down—put the entire contents of mind inside a ring of steel traps, guarded by burning electricity. Nothing visible inside the traps, nothing visible outside. _Breathe. Focus. He's nothing. You're nothing. No memories to exploit. Nothing to see here._ This form of defense was a new design; because mind magic didn't come easily to him, even after years of practice, his shields were ever-changing out of necessity. Sometimes that spontaneity backfired against more experienced masters—this time, Harry got lucky. The uncomfortable pressure quickly receded...

_"Look out!"_

...and he only realized it had receded _too_ quickly when the Elder Wand flashed pink and hit him in the leg with _Diffindo_ at close range.

_"Ah!"_

Pain bit sharply at him; he nearly dropped his wand as he too staggered backward, seeking distance. Grindelwald towered over him as he bent and pressed his left hand to the wound in his leg.

"You're wrong once again, _mein Hübscher._" The older wizard's creepy smile was back. "For the time being, you belong to me."

As Harry's leg gave a particularly painful throb and blood crept between his fingers and sullied his robes, he forgot again about focusing and staying calm and _Steer clear of important historical figures, do not help or harm them overmuch, because your actions as a Corrector will already make timelines quake_—he surrendered to his temper, and spat at Grindelwald's feet.

The twisted excitement on Grindelwald's face hardened into genuine menace for the first time. He gave the Elder Wand an elegant swish and hissed: "_Crucio._"

Liquid fire replaced the blood left in Harry's veins; the familiar agony of Cruciatus had not diminished one bit. He screamed so loudly that several animals which hadn't already fled from the fire or the chaos of the wizards' battle darted desperately out of burrows for a last chance at escape. Phaedra made a noise of mingled commiseration and horror from just behind him, but it took several seconds for him to hear.

His left hand was soaked and his skin was clammy when the world came back.

Mere feet away, Grindelwald crouched in front of him. "I didn't want to do that," he said, in a voice that was oddly calm—even remorseful. His chilly blue eyes flickered between his victims. "Though you British wizards constantly vex me, I dislike losing my temper. Flinging around Unforgivables. It is... limiting."

"You enjoyed every bit of that," the trembling girl behind him whispered, voice shaky with her own pain.

Harry glared at the older man, panted, said nothing. His mind was racing, and mostly racing around the same thought over and over: _get away, get away, you have to get yourself and Phaedra away from this madman. Now. Now or never._

"I admire your spirit, young man. I am used to working unopposed—have, in fact, had no worthy challenger or decent duel in over twenty-five years. Then here you come, determined to stand against me—and passably good at it!"

"You're... trying to_ kidnap... _a _student_. A _child_."

"I'm trying to bring her to where she belongs. And where _you_ belong too. Imagine... if you were trained under me, if you changed your purpose to match ours! Freedom for witches and wizards, infinite possibilities for education and other forms of self-improvement. Harnessing the might we were _born_ with, and putting non-magical people in their rightful place!"

"Not interested," Harry said. "I'd die before I let you train me to sweep floors, let alone any of _that_ rubbish."

"Don't be a fool!" the Dark Lord admonished him. "_Think_. Why should I grant you your wish? Do you understand why I am reluctant to kill you? _Magic is dying out_—magical people are outnumbered, destined to be put to the yoke of non-magicals if they do not act! A wizard who isn't fighting to free his fellows from the Muggles' shackles is wasting his inborn talent. It pains me enough to spill my own kind's blood; I will not let a witch or wizard die before realizing their potential, if I can help it."

_Unless her name is Ariana Dumbledore_, Harry thought suddenly, with a new flare of fury and loathing, _and she gets in the way of your stupid bloody search for a stone and a wand and a cloak._

And immediately after that thought, lightning hit his brain again as he remembered—_the Cloak_.

The most innocuous of the Deathly Hallows, the one Death itself could not see, the one a man like this valued least—that was how they might escape him.

Grindelwald reached out with the hand not holding his wand; he looked as earnest as he ever had, and so must have misinterpreted the startled expression that traveled over his opponent's face. "Let us start over, hmm? Lay down your wand and tell me your name. I shall heal your and Miss Lovegood's wounds, and we can return to my School of Might. All will be forgiven."

Harry was already deep in his own head, recalling where the Invisibility Cloak was tucked away in his robes and trying to gauge Phaedra's condition without looking directly at her. _I have one chance to pull something off. Can't mess this up_. _If Grindelwald figures out I've got a Hallow_...

He knew Grindelwald wasn't as deadly at close range. Whether the man had some omnipotent skill that worked best at a distance or he just didn't like to get close, attacking while he was nearby was Harry's best bet. Killing him wasn't an option—but there was nothing wrong with leaving an impression.

_Especially since I can fix it later_.

Grindelwald cleared his throat, jolting him back to reality. "Come now, don't make things difficult. What are you waiting for?"

_The right moment_, Harry thought, slowly pocketing his wand as though he intended to comply. Phaedra whimpered _"no_" behind him, but he forced himself to ignore it—to sell the story, for her sake. He opened his mouth as if to confess his name and purpose... Grindelwald leaned closer... Harry's right hand brushed impossibly-smooth cloth...

...and when he was ready, he aimed at the vulnerable earth between them and lashed out wandlessly, nonverbally, with his left hand.

_EXPULSO_.

The ground exploded into chunks and dangerous spinning shards of rock. With a shout of surprise and anger, Grindelwald was blasted backward—but Harry wasn't done. While his foe sailed through the air, he yanked his Invisibility Cloak out in the blink of an eye and Banished it backwards, towards Phaedra, so he could once again draw his wand with his right hand and hit this self-righteous bastard with his new signature spell—the reason why the older Correctors called him _Little Lightning Bolt_.

_"Fulminis!"_

The Dark Lord's shout became a scream. Harry's aim was just as accurate as ever—Grindelwald's right arm was now seared with a small but angry red weal shaped like the lightning he'd just been hit with. He twisted with agony after finally hitting the ground; his frosty eyes were shut tight, his hand was tight but shaky around the Deathstick, and the noises he made hinged on inhuman.

Harry spent less than a second checking to make sure Grindelwald was sufficiently distracted. Then he turned tail and hobble-sprinted toward the telltale glimmer he hoped was Phaedra under his Cloak.

_Come on, come on. Damn you, leg... no. No, damn you, Grindelwald. Hitting me with those spells consecutively... well, at least I got you back. That'll teach you to throw Cruciatus at someone like it's a Chocolate Frog._

Phaedra was fumbling one-handed in the grass when he made it to her—he almost screamed _"What are you doing!?"_ before remembering that she'd lost her wand when that bastard broke the bones in her arm.

"Phaedra—we need to go _right now_. Can you keep this Cloak on?"

Her gaze darted up to meet his; it was half-glazed, as though she were in shock. She was obviously searching for her wand on autopilot, the only thing she could think to do while she was in so much pain.

"Harry...?"

"Focus," he said firmly; "focus on me, focus on us getting out of here." He flicked his wand and incanted "_Ferula_," ignoring her wince as the Conjured set of bandages wrapped tightly around her right arm and nearly locked it in place against her side. Immediately after that came a strong "_Accio_ Phaedra Lovegood's wand" after he'd Conjured a second set of (slightly less restrictive) bandages for his own leg; he snatched the wand out of the air and thrust it into her uninjured left hand. "I need you to listen and understand me right now."

"Trying... what do I need to... do?"

"Run with me, if you can. Stay close to me. And keep this Cloak closer. If I fall behind—_keep running_. Get out of this forest. He will not find you as long as you're under this."

A glint of comprehension came back into her blue eyes. It was the most beautiful thing Harry had seen all evening.

"Okay."

"Are you ready?" he demanded, putting a mild attraction charm on the Cloak so it wouldn't fly off or reveal them as they went; as soon as she nodded, he set off another chain of explosions behind them and pushed her forward toward the shimmering Anti-Apparition line. "Good—we're going _now._ _Run!"_

She didn't need telling twice: she dashed across the dying flowers and through the trees with Harry right behind her Silencing their steps. He pushed his strongest barrier-shattering magic forward until the tangible blue wall trembled and cracked apart like stained glass, allowing them through. The Cloak whipped out like a silvery flag of surrender behind them, but it stayed with its master and it kept them invisible to the world.

Grindelwald's half-angry, half-agonized yells chased them through Hallerbos, sounding constantly like their owner was right behind Harry and Phaedra no matter how much distance they put between themselves and him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Liebling:_** darling, sweetheart, favorite
> 
> **_mein Hübscher:_** my pretty/handsome one
> 
> Unless the author is felled by a previously-unknown and overpowering allergic reaction, Chapter 5 will be posted on Friday, January 24.


	5. The Encounter

Harry's lungs were on fire.

His legs weren't doing much better. Trained and tested he might be, but he'd done far too much sprinting and sidestepping and jumping in one evening to be entirely free of any burning sensation down there—and that was _without_ taking his present running and searing injury into account. Though he'd done a half-acceptable job binding the slice in his leg so it wouldn't leave a bloody trail behind him, it still stung insistently each time his foot banged against the ground. The lingering pain from the Cruciatus wasn't helping matters.

Every time he thought about collapsing, though, he only had to turn his head to the left and spot Phaedra running alongside him—gray-faced, also injured, likely traumatized, but still _moving_—still putting distance between herself and her tormentor. Her perseverance fueled his own, and he moved the Invisibility Cloak more firmly over her to support it.

After fifteen more minutes darting soundlessly between the trees, they came upon another clearing: a circle of especially-tall bluebell flowers glowing eerily blue under the moonlight. Phaedra pulled in a painful-sounding gasp of air, and Harry moved a bit ahead so he could stop and bring her carefully to a stop too.

"H-Harry...?"

"Shhh." He looked behind them and ahead, searching for wider openings in the forest. It was a thrill to finally see one—a place that might signify the end of this sprawling maze. All he needed was enough strength to get them out.

"You can talk... but quietly. How's your arm? It hasn't gotten any worse?"

She shook her head. "No... the hurt is still the same."

"I'd mend the break myself, but I'm nowhere near the skill of a trained Healer. Better if someone does it properly—maybe at St. Mungo's—"

"No," Phaedra protested, but quietly. "Please... I just want to go home. Or back to my school, with the matron..."

Harry fought down a surge of disappointment, tinged with frustration. He probably could have Apparated to St. Mungo's with her easily, provided it was still in London, and been assured that she would be in capable hands so he could carry on with his mission... but he couldn't leave her somewhere she so desperately didn't want to be. It wouldn't feel right.

_Legal stuff it is, then_.

"Okay... okay, no hospital for now. That means we've got to make sure _that_ berk isn't still following us before we go."

He jerked a thumb back in the direction they'd came, where Grindelwald was hopefully still rolling about and screaming. Fortunately, they'd stopped being able to hear him several minutes ago.

"Go?"

"To Calais, our first stop in getting you back home." _Shite_, he realized suddenly; _I've got to come up with a plausible reason why I can't just take her back to Hogsmeade or any other place in Britain that she'd be familiar with._ "I'll be taking you Side-Along, but my Apparition License is... er... a little outdated."

_"Outdated,"_ she repeated slowly.

_Yep, super outdated. Out of any date you've ever heard of yet._ "Just a bit, yeah. It's nothing for you to worry about—I've got plenty of experience popping around—but it's been a while since I've taken someone with me."

"And you want to practice by _popping_ us all the way to another country?"

Harry huffed a short laugh. "Not right away!" he reassured her. "No, first I want to pop us out of Hallerbos. Then I'll need a little more of your attention before we go any further."

"You are remarkably blasé about possibly Splinching us out of existence," Phaedra sighed—but before Harry could defend himself, she had already moved to his right side and closed her good hand around his arm. Silently awed by the show of trust, he made himself focus extra intensely on the sliver of tree-free space they'd both spotted many yards ahead. The wound in his dominant leg was pushed down; he pivoted with the other as smoothly as he ever had.

_Pop_.

Stifling darkness... full-body compression... the sharp jerk and hiss of air leaving his lungs and straining to enter again... wild hurtling through an invisible, compact tube...

The world came back—the sounds of the forest had receded. Harry carefully opened his eyes. He grinned the moment he saw that Hallerbos was a healthy distance behind them; they were standing in what was undoubtedly someone's well-tended garden, the moon was shining down from high above their heads, and neither he nor Phaedra appeared to have lost any limbs in the Apparition.

_But best to be sure_.

"Phaedra, you all right?"

The young woman spared a glance for the presence of her own limbs, even taking a minute to gingerly pat each one down with her uninjured hand—and when she met Harry's gaze again, her eyes were bright and grateful. "I am better than I could have hoped to be."

He wanted to accept her awe, but didn't feel right doing so—not after unwittingly breaking his promise not to have her get hurt. "I'm sorry. I promised you he wouldn't get to you, and—"

"—he didn't. Not for very long." She smiled wistfully. "You _did_ tell me to run if he got past you; I was the one who didn't listen."

_Yeah, you sure as hell didn't!_ Harry wanted to say—but he used all the self-control he possessed to refrain. Easier to put a positive spin on the whole thing, now that the worst was over. "You didn't, but only because you were willing to stand up to someone you were obviously scared shitless of... That was the bravest thing I've seen in a while."

"Bravest? I didn't feel brave at the time, but... I suppose it was. My mentor will be pleased."

_Hmm?_

"Mentor?" he asked, but Phaedra had suddenly gained a thunderstruck look like she'd forgotten something very important.

"Oh no, I can't believe... how could I forget about it all this time?!"

"Forget about what?"

She reached into the bodice of her dress so hastily that he barely had time to flush scarlet and look away. By the time he chanced a peek back in her direction, her good hand held a shimmering golden bird-shaped pin aloft like it was a national treasure.

"It's for emergencies," she explained. "If ever I was separated from my mentor, I could squeeze this pin and he would instantly be at my side to help. But I pressed it so many times at Lord Grindelwald's school and on the grounds just outside... I assumed he must have put up Anti-Apparition wards as far as the eye could see to keep any of the students from being rescued, and didn't think about the pin any more. I figured I'd have to run."

"And you made it," Harry reassured her. A closer look at the pin after she squeezed it identified the shiny bird as a phoenix, a thought which nagged at him too quietly in the storm of everything else going on in and out of his head. "We can Apparate now, as soon as I've got my bearings and remembered where we are."

"...'Remembered'?"

Her voice was shrewd, but he didn't panic for a second: he'd been at this a long time, he knew when someone was _actually_ catching on to his biggest secret and when they were just waiting to be convinced by whatever explanation he was going with this time.

"Right, I never said... just before we came across one another, I'd fallen and knocked my head pretty good on one of the trees in that forest, which is part of why I mistook you for one of my friends when I saw you. I'm not... _quite_ sure how long I was lying unconscious in Hallerbos, so some reminders on if the Prime Minister's still the same and where Calais' lighthouse is wouldn't go amiss..."

Phaedra stared at him for even longer but Harry didn't sweat one bit; she was forced to blame the strangeness of his questions on his lingering injuries, and her willingness to answer without follow-up questions on her own.

"The last time I checked, it was still 1925; I don't know much about Muggle politics; and I'm afraid I don't do much travel outside of Britain, but as far as I've heard, the lighthouse still stands."

_Nineteen twenty-five_, Harry thought heavily, blowing out a quiet breath. _Well_—_at least we got the time period right_. Aloud he lied in the most cheerful voice he could manage: "Still the same year, brilliant. I'm Muggle-raised and I've heard stories, you know—wasn't entirely convinced that Rip Van Winkle _wasn't_ just some wizard who mucked around with the wrong potion or knocked his _own_ head too hard."

That made her smile a little bit, and dispelled the tension before it could settle between them.

"So! Calais." He clapped his hands, glancing again at the distant forest he was trying to get them away from. "Once we've gotten there, where exactly do you want me to take you? Your home or your school?"

"It will have to be my home... I was taken from there, and my family is likely worried sick. And... you said you were Muggle-raised—I go to Hogwarts in Scotland, are you familiar with it?"

Mental training saved him again—the mere mention of the name would have caused Harry's face to screw up with longing otherwise, to match the growing warmth in his chest. _Hogwarts. School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. My ticket to escaping the Dursleys. The first place I ever belonged._

_My home, for a little while_.

But he couldn't tell Phaedra any of that—couldn't even reveal that he was more familiar with the place than some witches and wizards ever had cause to be. His best cover stories were the ones which kept him as far on the outskirts of Britain's wizard society as possible. The less people that could dispute an essential bit of his 'history', the better. Hogwarts was far too close-knit to allow any student to slip completely unnoticed and unremarked-upon through seven years of schooling.

_'Haphazardly home-schooled' it is._

"Premier school for witches and wizards in Britain?" he replied, after a moment of tilting his head like he had to think about it. "I've heard of it, yeah. Never been though, so maybe it's best if I let your parents take you back there."

"You have never _been_? Why not?"

"No time for backstories!" Harry kept his voice cheerful as he gestured toward the trees again, moving them out of the garden and onto the quiet country road nearby. "We _really_ need to get a move on before Mister 'I Dislike Losing My Temper' finds us out here and turns me into paste for branding him. You okay to do more popping?"

Phaedra took a moment to think about it before she nodded his way. He noted again the way she still favored her broken arm, glancing at it and touching it even with the splint on, and sympathy settled in his chest. _Poor girl, _he thought—_she's probably never been this badly hurt before, at least not without having it fixed in a trice. If I'd studied more healing magic for the brief time I was an Auror..._

He shook his head and stepped closer to her, lightly touching her injured arm's shoulder.

"I know I was joking with you earlier, but I won't lie to you now. Apparating while injured or out of sorts isn't anything to play with. I've done it successfully before tonight, but I doubt you have."

She shook her head too.

"Are you uncomfortable with me taking you Side-Along again?" Harry asked, as gently as he could. "We don't have to do it if you are. I'll escort you to London on foot if I have to—we might even be able to catch a taxi along the way, or get the Knight Bus if we get close enough to England to hail it."

Phaedra replied again in the negative.

"I was uncertain the first time," she said, "but you were so careful... I think I'll be fine. My arm is just hurting a little more now, is all."

"It's hurting _more_? Let me have a look."

He limped carefully to her right side, pulling his wand and passing it over the bandages in a basic diagnostic move Kingsley Shacklebolt had taught him once. The fractured bones in her arm glowed a faint orange under the bandages, and he winced at their positions and signs of previous movement. _That's got to hurt like hell. _There was no sign of internal bleeding, thankfully, but what he _could_ detect was bad enough. He wished suddenly and fervently that there was a spell to switch physical injuries, so he might be able instead to bind her bleeding leg and nick Blood-Replenishing Potion off a stranger in the nearest wizarding town to help her feel better.

"Mr. Evans—Harry? What is it? What do you see?"

"Something I'd rather not mess with," he said with a frown. "One time was risk enough; I don't want you to lose one of these bones in transit. Portkeys and Apparition are too dangerous now. Hold on to me—we'll walk a bit at a time, and hitch a ride with some Muggles once we've got to a town."

"All right," Phaedra agreed—or began to, before a tiny noise from behind her traveling companion drew her attention:

_Pop._

Harry started off down the dirt road, oblivious, but didn't get far: he'd looped his arm with hers, and so her stillness stalled him almost immediately. "What's up?"

She gasped instead of answering and slipped out of his grasp, hurrying back toward the garden. He turned to see what had snagged her attention, keeping a death-grip on his wand, and—

_Oh._

A wizard had appeared near-soundlessly among the flowers and vegetables, almost exactly where Harry and Phaedra had been standing a few minutes before. He was a case study in contrasts: he sported robes that were such a deep plum that they almost looked black in the moonlight; his high-heeled, buckled boots _were_ black and had the telltale shine of a recent polish; and even his expression was darker than either party would ever typically see. Yet there was brightness about him too, in the shining shoulder-length auburn hair and trimmed beard encircling his face, the subtle wink of his golden half-moon spectacles, and the bright, piercing blue eyes he trained on the two young people.

Harry stopped breathing. His brain raced on for a few more seconds, happy to leave him behind, until it too recognized the man in their midst and snagged on six years' worth of lingering bittersweet memories. Luckily the lack of air in his throat meant the low keen threatening to emerge was trapped there instead.

"_Professor_!" Phaedra breathed, flushed with the confirmation of her prayers answered. When overexcitement made her stumble into his path, he caught her effortlessly, held her still to examine her—and her enthusiasm didn't dim one bit. "Oh, Professor—you _found_ me—"

"So I did, Miss Lovegood," Albus Dumbledore declared. "And I am indescribably happy to find you alive."

"Grindelwald? _Grindelwald_."

The tone sliced more effectively through the web of pain entangling him than the name—than _his_ name. That half-worried, half-impatient cadence reminded him that great men did not snivel or grovel in the dirt—did not moan or gasp for breath. It was his destiny to push through pain like this, and pain _worse_ than this, to seize the brighter future wizards were owed. His burns and scars meant nothing in the grand design.

But they still hurt like hell.

_Get_ _up_, he ordered himself, and managed at last to uncurl and rise to a sitting position at the least. He had to use his left arm because his wand arm felt like nothing less than cooked meat, hanging at the end of his shoulder: all he could do with it was keep it tight around the Wand. But he sat up, and he forced his own vision to clear so that he might identify his rescuer.

"So you live. I knew you would."

Short dark hair, sharp angles, cool stare: Vinda Rosier knelt next to him, with her wand held tight in one hand. Other than a brief bout of coughing, she appeared undamaged. Her presence was a balm for the searing heat sizzling through him.

And yet. "I sent you east to search for the girl," he recalled. And from the position of the moon in the sky, that must have been some hours ago. "How did you come to find me here?"

"I always know how to find you," Vinda pronounced. At the skeptical look he leveled her way, she dryly added: "Though this time, your screaming helped."

_Ah._

"The girl was nowhere to be found east of the castle. Abernathy went north and found nothing; Meijer reported the same from the south. Did you have better luck?"

"After a fashion."

Her brows furrowed; the obvious question danced behind her eyes.

Gellert gestured weakly at the scorched earth around him: the burned bluebells, the tortured trees, the earth dug up and flung about, soaked by water and scarred by fire and lightning. "Tell me," he said, "what do you see here, when you look?"

Vinda's reply was quick and blunt. "Not the work of an underage schoolgirl."

"Correct. Not entirely, at least. _Here _and _here_—" His hand swept over some of the scorch marks on the ground, and the gouges in the trees— "are signs of Miss Lovegood's work. Crude, but a sign of progress. She wouldn't spit so much as a Toenail-Curling Jinx at her classmates when she was first matriculated, and here in this forest she dared send the Reductor Curse at her own headmaster."

"Remarkable! ...And audacious."

"Quite," Gellert agreed. He managed a smirk for the first time since his impromptu duel had concluded. His acolyte took it as a sign of his resolve and got smoothly to her feet, offering him her hand. As he accepted it and stood with a low hiss, he added: "The girl had help."

"Impossible! The girl was completely isolated—all of the children are. There's _no one_ they could contact to come for them."

"_Regardless_, someone _did_ find her. A young man, who quickly put himself between me and her. It is he and I who are responsible for the majority of the damage this forest suffered—and it was he who gifted me this."

He lifted his right arm for her inspection, silently gratified by the half-horrified, half-disgusted expression that settled on her face when she beheld the crude pinkish lightning bolt resting there. She would understand, now, why the air around them carried the faint smell of ozone, and why he had been temporarily incapacitated at all.

"_Mein Gott_..."

Gellert hummed. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured bandages and wrapped them around his wand arm; a few more flicks healed his other minor injuries and shook the dust off his robes while he gave her a brief summary of what had occurred in Hallerbos. _Not quite good as new, but close enough to keep up appearances_. No one at the school would notice if he was a bit disheveled.

And if anyone _did_, the wise would hold their tongues.

Vinda glanced around, evidently searching for the path his prey had taken—and finding nothing based on her renewed scowl. "Shall we give chase?" she asked. "The Lovegood girl can't have gotten far if she can't even hold her wand."

"No," Gellert dissented. "Not now. Perhaps if she were alone... but she isn't, so it's very likely that she has already been taken back home. No, what we need is a different strategy..."

He passed the Deathstick to his left hand and began to pace, to distract from the heat in his other arm. The dying grass crunched weakly under his boots, but he hardly heard it over the pulse of his own thoughts.

"Grindelwald," Vinda eventually interjected. "What is your will?"

A cold breeze rustled the trees still intact, lending a desperate edge to his acolyte's words. Gellert breathed it in as he turned to the space the dark young man had been standing in earlier this very night. Even without utilizing the Sight or dipping into his memories, he thought he could pick out his nameless foe standing across from him in the clearing once more, like a shimmering afterimage: moonlight glinted over his untidy hair, bright eyes and tense muscles as he stepped deliberately forward, as though to start their duel anew.

"...We shall go home," he proclaimed at last. "It is late, and we can begin our efforts to retrieve the girl once we have regrouped and I have recovered. Besides..."

He flexed his bandaged fingers, and smiled.

"...she is not the only one I need to retrieve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hero arrives.
> 
> This chapter ends Part 1 of _The Inverse Lightning Bolt_, _The Arrival_. Thanks to everyone who has read, liked, commented, bookmarked and otherwise interacted with _Inverse_ so far!
> 
> Chapter 6 will be posted on Friday, July 3.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with wacky time travel adventures. Sorry for the delay, but, uh, general depression and _global pandemic_.

_15 May 2007_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Scottish Highlands, United Kingdom_

Minerva McGonagall was not often shocked by anyone or anything. Harry felt a spark of pride the moment he saw the look on her face and realized he had joined quite the elite group.

"Potter—!"

"Hi, Headmistress. Mind if I visit you for a bit?"

"Well—well, of course you may! Come in."

His former Head of House opened Hogwarts' large doors wide, and the scent of dusty hallways, ancient books and a hot, delicious feast washed over her shoulders and made itself at home under Harry's nose. He was already grinning, but he couldn't resist an extra-wide quirk of the lips at how familiar the castle felt. Though he could never reside here again, a part of this place followed him everywhere (and every _when_) he went.

McGonagall must have been used to former students needing a moment to take in their old school, because she didn't hurry Harry along at all—only tilted her head forward meaningfully once he'd looked his fill at the entrance, and set about guiding him through the maze-like hallways. Many of the current students had been outside in classes or hanging out in groups around the lake, but there were still a respectable amount of children ready and willing to stop on the moving staircases and gawk at the Headmistress and her famous guest as they passed under them. A few bold ones even called out to Harry, and he waved in their direction without slowing down one bit.

"It has been quite some time since you were last here," she said as he drew up alongside her. "Dare I hope this is more of a social call...?"

"Sadly, no." Harry made sure he sounded as apologetic as he was; he had enjoyed the few conversations they'd had by Floo since he left the school for good. They ascended a staircase in tandem as he elaborated. "No Dark Lords right behind me this time, but I don't have much time for a chat. There's some books I've been looking for—useful ones, with records of advanced Defense spells and runes—and Hogwarts is the only place with known copies. I was hoping to borrow them from your Restricted Section for a while...?"

"Books on advanced Defense, you say? So you haven't completely left your Auror habits behind."

"Something like that. They're more for my personal use than for the Aurors or the Ministry. ...So how about it—can you write me a pass so Madam Pince doesn't shoo me out?"

Professor McGonagall still didn't smile much, but six years under her tutelage had taught Harry the signs to look for and—yes, _there_ was the slight upward quirk of her lips. "I can do you one better. Most of the books you mention are presently in my office; if you are amenable, you might wait there while I speak with Irma myself to gather the rest."

The words were innocuous—and true; the place had been hers for nearly a decade now—but Harry still nearly stumbled over his cloak from the tingle of discomfort that slithered down his spine when she said _my office_. He tried to keep his voice light as he protested: "Headmistress, er... my schoolboy aversion to it aside, I have no problem with accompanying you to the library in addition to your office."

"Irma will be thrilled to hear that you bear her books no ill will. But you did say you were in a hurry, yes? Better then that we divide and conquer. Unless you don't trust yourself alone in my quarters...?"

This sounded so close to an off-color joke that Harry was caught flat-footed. "Well—well, no, I mean, of course I won't bother anything besides the books—"

"Excellent," McGonagall said briskly, just as they alighted off the stairs and onto the seventh floor. "Then I have nothing to worry about. I'll show you the bookshelves and you can start your search while I'm downstairs."

Although Harry continued to sputter and object, she paid him no mind; only kept guiding them down the hall until they made it to the familiar stone gargoyle. He was forced to compose himself as they walked, then do so again after seeing her straighten her spectacles and offer the password: "Peppermint Toads."

The gargoyle leapt aside to reveal the ascending spiral staircase. Harry breathed in sharply.

"Yes?" McGonagall prompted.

"Nothing, just... I'm surprised your password isn't more..."

"More 'me'?" She offered him that upward mouth-quirk again, before her features softened. "I used to disapprove of Albus' passwords, among other things—thought they were childish—but I came to appreciate them after he was gone. He always teased me about letting my hair down, having a bit of spontaneity and youthful energy in my life, and I didn't understand what he was on about..."

"He never did mind being silly," Harry murmured. His face was paler and his feet felt unsteady, but not enough to keep him from stepping on the stairs with her.

"And he was right in the end. Life is serious enough without us adding to it everywhere we can. I have endeavored to use a few more lighthearted passwords each term, in his honor."

"Only a few, Headmistress?"

"Gravitas _does_ have its place, Mr. Potter. And 'Professor' is fine."

Since she was standing just ahead of Harry on the stairs, McGonagall reached the top first. She pushed open the wooden door and strode through with her guest close behind.

The Headmistress' office had become more and more familiar to Harry as he grew up at Hogwarts and was called to it more often, and at first glance he was surprised at how similar it looked and felt. It was still circular of course, with a high ceiling, walls of textbooks, and a merrily-flickering fireplace on one wall. Afternoon sunlight drifted through the windows, illuminating the tables which held stacks of paperwork, a biscuit tin or two, and still more books. The differences were small but stark: for one, no tall golden perch sat in one corner. The cabinet which once stood half-open to reveal a splendid Pensieve was now locked tight, with no way to tell what lay inside. All the spindly, puffing silver instruments which had once dwelt here appeared to be long gone too, replaced by bronze biscuit tins, but many of the other placements were intact: the claw-footed desk still sat regally in the middle of the room, besieged with scrolls, and the Sorting Hat still hovered on a shelf just behind it, with the glass case which once held the Sword of Gryffindor twinkling innocently nearby. And all the portraits of snoozing past headmasters and headmistresses were bright and gleaming and quite intact on every wall.

At seventeen, fresh from defeating Voldemort and briefly losing the Resurrection Stone, Harry had found this office to be one of the most peaceful places in the whole world. But at twenty-six he now felt like the walls were closing in on him, intent on squashing him flat. His palms sweated madly and his heartbeat kicked double-time in his chest. And all the while, he forced himself to keep his gaze as close to the floor as possible.

"Have you got an index I can borrow?" he asked hastily. "Only, I wouldn't want to botch up your books if they're already sorted by subject."

"You flatter me. I've not had the time for a more detailed categorization, so alphabetical by author has had to suffice. Do you know which titles you seek?"

_By heart_. Harry handed her a rolled-up scroll he'd brought of the names, just in case he'd forgotten one or two. He tried to ignore the searching look she aimed at him when she noticed the dampness of his hands.

"Then I shall take this and be back shortly."

"Headmist—Professor, are you _sure_ you wouldn't rather I waited—"

"_Potter_," McGonagall interjected, more kindly than she had in living memory. "I more than trust you in this office, or in any other place in this school. And nothing in here wishes you harm. Do try to relax while you search for these books, won't you?"

She turned on her heel after that, and flashed him a brief but suspicious _smile_ as she slipped back through the door and disappeared down the stairs. The door didn't _click_ to lock behind her, but it might as well have—he was no less trapped.

_She planned this. She had to have planned this. If anyone else had come for these_—

_No, focus. Enough of this; there's no reason to be paranoid here. Just relax. Breathe._

There was no reason to panic, or even to assume that her strange look had meant anything. And even if she _was _up to something, it didn't matter. He had a mission, and he needed to be at Hogwarts to complete it. It would be simple: maybe five minutes, in and out. He knew what he sought: accounts of the creators of nearly every defensive spell, rune phrase and counter-curse of the last five hundred years. He would grab the books, say his goodbyes to McGonagall, and be gone.

There was no sound beyond gentle snoozing from a few scattered portraits. The others didn't seem bothered to pretend with him any longer. Harry took even more care not to look at any of them as his eyes found their prize: the tallest shelf of books his former Head of House had pointed out before she left.

With a moment's pause to clear his mind, he strode confidently over to it, his expression stony and serious. His left index finger brushed carefully over _A History of Inferi and Their Weaknesses _by Acheron Anthilus, moving rightward over anti-Dark texts by Atmos, Barthandelus, Bones, Brown...

"Harry?"

The voice was as it always had been: deep, measured, gentle, now with a hint of mingled curiosity and disbelief. It took every bit of self-control he had not to tense up. Instead he lingered in place as long as he could stand it (four seconds) before he turned around to face the second-largest portrait on the wall behind McGonagall's chair. Framed in a tasteful shade of gold, Albus Dumbledore leaned forward hesitantly, as though unsure of his own guess, and pinned Harry in place with his uniquely piercing gaze. The other sights and sounds in the office that was once his faded into the background as Harry watched those familiar blue eyes look him up and down, and felt a tingle of power that even magic could not explain.

"Professor Dumbledore," he eventually managed to say, keeping his tone even. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Disturb? Oh no, not at all!" From one moment to the next, Hogwarts' finest Headmaster lit up like a string of fairy lights: his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles, and he beamed as he clapped his hands together a few times like a little boy getting everything he'd wanted for his birthday. "On the contrary; I am beyond pleased to see you again."

Harry bowed respectfully at the waist, so that none of the portraits would notice the way his face scrunched up and his insides squirmed. While some more of them stopped feigning sleep to hum agreeably or toss him kind greetings, Dumbledore himself surprised Harry by making a noise of mild disapproval.

"None of that, please; you were never my servant or my lesser in any way. Won't you stand up straight? Let me look at you."

"Nothing much to see," Harry pointed out, but he fixed his expression in time to unbend and be looked over again. Other than a change in frame shape for his glasses and slightly longer unruly hair, he hadn't changed much. People still occasionally compared him to his father, after all.

Tilting his head a bit, Dumbledore offered another bright smile. "We will have to agree to disagree," he said cheerfully. "You look wonderful, Harry. Time has been kind to you."

"I guess so, sir."

The Headmaster paused, blinked slowly, as though he were digesting the clipped response and adjusting accordingly. Indeed, when he spoke again, his voice (while still upbeat) was slightly more delicate. "It _has_ been a long time since we last spoke, hasn't it...? Almost ten years."

_Almost nine_, Harry thought, but he nodded. The May after next month would be ten years since he'd stood in this office and told this very portrait about losing the Resurrection Stone in the forest. Ten years since the moment hours before that one, where he'd left this room knowing he had to walk to his death. Knowing that the man hanging on this wall had made sure he _would_.

_Focus._

He half-turned back to the shelves to continue his quest for the books he'd come for. Fortunately Dumbledore's portrait didn't seem to mind speaking to his shoulder, and carried on trying to make conversation as Harry plucked out _Counter-Jinxes of the Great War_ and _Runes to Regulate Runespoors _and started a stack.

"I assume the Ministry has been keeping you busy?"

"Busy enough. But I don't let them run me ragged either."

"That is good to hear. They do mean well, but the British Ministry _will_ monopolize your time if you allow them to. Between you and me, as many times as I denied offers to be placed there, I often felt as though I might as well Conjure up a desk in some office and a patient secretary while I was at it!"

Harry couldn't help the chuckle that slipped out, especially when a glance in Dumbledore's direction saw the jovial old man having his own chortle at the Ministry's expense. Though his own burst of humor was tinged with the uncertainty and discomfort that accompanied all his feelings about his former Headmaster, he also _never_ passed up a chance to make fun of his employers. Even working for them twice had not won them back the goodwill he'd held for them before the smear campaign that followed the Triwizard Tournament.

Director Robards seemed to sense his lingering 'discontent' too, since Harry was mysteriously never called upon to represent his newest Department except during a handful of internal meetings where patriotism was not high priority.

"Who in the _world_ is making those horrid sounds?" a voice suddenly snarled from Dumbledore's left.

The other portraits emitted long-suffering sighs, but Harry just rolled his eyes. Although Dumbledore's light, friendly voice still had the same soothing effect on him as it had when the man was alive, Severus Snape's acidic tone had none of the venom which had once set Harry's teeth on edge. Seeing his dour expression now, dead-center behind McGonagall's chair in the largest and darkest portrait, Harry only felt an odd mixture of amusement and pity.

_Now _this_ is truly a shadow of the man I used to know and loathe._

"I would think you'd heard laughter enough times in your life to recognize it, Severus," Dumbledore's portrait replied merrily. "Though I admit all your experiences may have been secondhand."

"I would say 'have your laugh' but you have already disturbed me by doing so," Snape's portrait sneered. His dark eyes darted up and across until they made contact with Harry—and the way he reared back in his frame would have been funny if it wasn't also a little insulting. "Of all the—you were laughing with _Potter?_ _Potter_ is here and you didn't think to say anything?"

Dumbledore twinkled away, not losing an inch of his smile. "You cannot mean to tell me you were _actually_ asleep? Well—_Harry_ is indeed here, so I hope you will forgive me my distraction. It has been some time since he graced us with his presence."

"Darkened our doorstep, more like!"

"Severus, there's no need to be rude. I daresay Harry is as tired of your hostile charade as I was, by the end."

The discomfort in Harry's chest spread to his mouth and forced him to interject. "Actually, sir, if Snape was anything _but_ hostile to me I think I'd run out of here screaming. He shouldn't need to pretend to care about me anymore now that he's dead, right?"

The other portraits went quite still at this. Dumbledore looked so startled that he paused, his mouth half-open around what Harry was sure was a rote correction of '_Professor _Snape'. He knew he'd been rude, had probably crossed a line referring to any former Headmaster's death that way—much less being rude to Dumbledore—but he was getting tired of pretending all was well.

Snape rose from his chair and turned away with a sharp snap of his usual black robes. "I had more than enough of your adulation of this boy while I was alive," he said with stiff dignity. "I will not suffer it now. Enjoy your _family reunion_."

He stalked out of his frame and through several others, until he was out of sight, presumably off to terrorize the other innocent castle portraits.

"Really starting to regret not letting them trash your portrait!" Harry called after him.

Dumbledore's sigh was resigned. "Harry... I realize it may be simpler to treat Severus the way you always have done, without regard to the things you now know about him, but I think it would be kinder to lay this particular grudge to rest. Whatever his other faults, he acted with great nobility and strength of character for sixteen years, without any guarantee of ever being acknowledged by anyone but myself—and I would be remiss if I didn't admit that my acknowledgement was quite belated."

Harry met those blue eyes with a steady, stubborn gaze for several heartbeats before making a show of half-turning the rest of his body to collect more books. "Snape is a large part of why I'm still breathing," he stated. "He's single-handedly responsible for minimizing student casualties during his time as Headmaster, and he faced more danger in Voldemort's presence than most people ever have in their lives. He was brave and brilliant, a bloody genius really. But he was also a vindictive, self-righteous bastard who refused to see the good in anyone except the one person he accidentally got killed."

Satisfyingly, Dumbledore looked away first.

"Severus Snape can say what he likes to me," Harry added. "I'm beyond it affecting me now. But that doesn't mean I won't give as good as I get. I can respect what he did for my mum's memory without respecting _him_."

Phineas Nigellus Black gave a very unflattering hiss in the corner of the room—but besides him, the other portraits appeared to accept the reason for his rudeness, if not the rudeness itself. Apparently Snape had not endeared himself much to most of the other portraits since finally being hung here.

He turned his full attention back to his pitiful stack, and adding more to it. It wouldn't do to be caught distracted and unfinished when Professor McGonagall inevitably returned. Even if she _had_ somehow foreseen his visit and planned this impromptu "reunion", as he suspected, she couldn't linger in the library forever; lunch would be over soon, and afternoon classes would start. _Though it's not like that matters, since she's not teaching classes anymore. Who in the world's trying to fill her shoes now, anyway? I never asked_—

Another mental shake (and spotting _The Darkest Alchemie_) got him back on track. It was the work of a second to balance it on top of his other finds. _Focus._

Whatever he may have been thinking (or _not _thinking, since Harry kept forgetting the portrait wasn't really _him_), Dumbledore didn't let the quiet linger long. "How have you been, Harry? I have heard a few things over the years, but Minerva has never been the kind to indulge in gossip. Beyond your work with the Ministry and your renewed relationship with Miss Weasley—"

_At least he's changed the subject_, Harry thought, though he found an eerie sort of comfort in the idea that even in the afterlife he and Albus Dumbledore might someday be arguing about how much of a git Snape was or wasn't. Aloud he interrupted, saying, "I'm not an Auror anymore. Couldn't crack it for long, I guess. And Ginny and I called it quits six years ago."

The blue eyes dimmed. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be. I've learned a lot about myself. Got a nicer job. Found someone—" He was about to say _better_, but that seemed disrespectful, and not quite right besides. And anyway, he and Ginny were friends again, after a (long, painful) fashion. "—more understanding."

"Ah... that is good. Self-awareness _can _sometimes bring its own satisfaction, though it holds no candle to happiness. You seem content with your circumstances, Harry; I am glad to see it."

"Thank you, sir."

Magical portraits couldn't use Legilimency and all their staring wasn't _real_, but as Harry felt the back of his neck prickle and heat and turned to meet Dumbledore's gaze again, he felt as though his old mentor might have found a trick to pull it all off. There was simply too _much_ emotion in that painted expression for it to be entirely facsimile: his smiles wavered at Harry's bursts of discourtesy but held mostly steady, and he kept looking almost hungrily at Harry, as one would a long-lost friend or family member, as though all the time in the world would not be enough to take him in.

Harry opened his mouth to say _Something on my face?_ or something else irreverent; what came out instead was, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He hated how vulnerable he sounded.

Predictably, Dumbledore answered Harry's question with one of his own. "How do you think I should look at you?"

"I don't know! I don't... just... not like you're looking at me now."

"And how am I looking at you right now?"

_Like you missed me._

Harry bit his lip, hard; his breath hissed out between his teeth. "Like, like—you know what I mean!" he snapped. "Like I've given you a Christmas gift. Like I've just saved the world from Voldemort again. Like I'm _special_, like I matter to you!"

It got very quiet in the office after his words finished ringing through it, so quiet that the silence screamed. Harry realized his hands were shaking and stuffed them in his robes. He hadn't shouted, but it felt like he had: the other portraits were cringing, or finding other places they suddenly had to be. Armando Dippet was blushing in the opposite corner; even Phineas Nigellus seemed to have nothing to say. But most of his attention was focused on Dumbledore; the old man's face had fallen and his eyes were now shiny with moisture.

"You _do_ matter to me," he murmured.

Harry slammed _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ onto his lopsided pile, and thought but didn't say _Could've fooled me_.

"This is truly what you believe, then?" Dumbledore went on, with fingers still and stiff on his painted desk. "After everything you have learned about me... you have convinced yourself that I did not care for you?"

"I didn't need much 'convincing'," Harry retorted, making sure he mimicked the Headmaster's tone. "For every moment where you sat and spoke with me, protected me, _supported_ me even, there's a matching memory of Severus Snape's that shows that a lot of it was fabricated. It was all part of a plan, and the end of that plan was me at the business end of Voldemort's wand."

"The way I treated you was _not_ part of any plan! An untimely death was your _fate_—and to my horror and shame, I saw no way to prevent it, despite all my power and knowledge. No experts in even the darkest magic had answers to the problem of untangling a Horcrux from an innocent soul. All the books in the world, including each and every book on that very shelf behind you, offered me no answer to your plight. Once Lord Voldemort decided to take action based on Sybill's prophecy, once he marked you as his equal, you both were locked into the horrible end to come.

"But even keeping the secret of your scar from you did not prevent me from caring deeply for you. _None_ of the moments wherein we bonded were fabricated—rather, they made it more and more difficult to keep your destiny from you. Knowing that Voldemort tethered you back to life when he took your blood was sometimes the only thing that kept me going—the only thing which allowed me to meet your eyes."

"Then _why_? Why did you meet me over and over and lie to me? Why didn't you at least give me a _hint_ of what I'd have to do?!"

Dumbledore only shook his head and said, "You already know why." A tear slipped down his face, which only made Harry's anger blaze hotter, burning his throat. His own eyes stung, but he blinked angrily until the feeling went away.

"This is why I haven't come back here," he choked out. "This is _exactly_ why. I left Hogwarts, went off to lock up old Death Eaters—tried to pick up my life where I'd left off. I distracted myself with dueling and flat-finding and mourning and having a girlfriend I was too depressed to really appreciate. I spent _years_ thinking I was over what happened to me at school, how Snape treated me, how _you_ treated me. I thought talking with you at King's Cross fixed everything. I thought I'd forgiven you for making the choices you made during the war. And I _had_, I _had_ forgiven you for everything... except the one thing I couldn't get over."

"How much I hurt you," Dumbledore answered in a whisper. He seemed to sag under the weight of his protégé's words. "Everything I did _to_ you, and did not do _for_ you. So, your words about Severus pretending to care for you... were not solely aimed at him."

Not for the first time since this conversation had begun, Harry found his emotions to be too much to bear, and looked down and away. _Focus, damn it_, he told himself for the hundredth time that day, and tried to slow his breathing. _What's the hell's wrong with me? Why did I say all of that? I'm supposed to be over this. This isn't supposed to _matter _to me anymore_.

"Harry, please speak to me," Dumbledore entreated. "Ask your questions, find your peace. The war is over, and there should be nothing left to fester in the dark. You have the right to live a life free of deception and suppression—the right to be happy. Tell me what is in your heart."

Harry's heart ached beyond description. He Conjured a bag to place half the books from his list in, and did not answer. Mostly because he did not know what to say—where to start.

"Harry, I will happily accept your scorn. Though I am little more than a reflection of the man you once knew, I am more than willing to bear your disappointment, your anger—even your disgust. I deserve it and more. But I confess... I do not feel comfortable having you believe that you meant nothing to me. And I do not think I could stand it if you hated me."

"...Don't you think it would be easier," the young man croaked, "if I _could?"_

His eyes burned more fiercely than before, and it took all his effort to keep from breaking down in front of the one man he had always tried to be strong for. By contrast, Dumbledore's eyes were overflowing with tears, so many that they splashed and collected on his robes and on the imaginary desk he sat behind; he did not seem to care a whit if his former student saw him at his most vulnerable. He lifted one wide blue sleeve to wipe the tears away, and opened his mouth to speak again—though Harry knew he wasn't ready to hear another word.

"Harry. If you never know a single other thing about me, you should know that I—"

_THUD._

Harry flinched—the door had swung open, and Minerva McGonagall swept through with several ragged books floating obediently behind her. And close behind _them_, quite unexpectedly but welcome all the same, walked Harry's boyfriend of one year.

"Apologies for the delay—it took some time to gather the other books you were looking for—"

"It's fine," he replied far too quickly. "Just fine. I wasn't waiting overlong or anything."

Professor McGonagall probably noticed the waver in his voice, or the trembling in his hands, but to her credit she didn't comment on it—although her eyes clearly and closely scrutinized both his and Dumbledore's faces. All she said instead was, "I was also delayed when I ran into your colleague. He mentioned he was looking for you...?"

"We missed each other this morning," Neville Longbottom explained, and casually crossed the office, closing the distance between himself and Harry. Once he got there he squeezed his 'colleague's' shoulder, before resting his hand a little lower. "Hey, Harry."

"Hey."

Just like that, Harry's spirits lifted. No matter how shitty a day he was having, or how much he lost control of his emotions, Neville always managed to soothe his temper and put things in perspective. He helped Harry focus, brought him down to Earth. The doting smile and careful touches he usually saved for the flowers in his private garden were surprisingly effective on humans too, when he used them.

He had no idea why Neville had, years ago, jumped at being a Corrector with himself and Ron and Hermione, but since they'd started dating he found himself more grateful every day that Robards had offered the two of them the chance to be together again.

"You okay?" Neville asked under his breath. His gentle brown eyes also flickered between Harry and Dumbledore, who was now watching them interact with a pleasantly startled expression (and noticeably puffy eyes).

For his part, Harry muttered a quick "I'll be fine" and granted his boyfriend a tiny smile before moving to collect the floating tomes behind McGonagall; to her he said more audibly, "Thank you for this. I really do appreciate you letting me borrow these."

"It's no trouble at all. Though Irma requests you kindly take extra care with Arsenius Jigger's tomes and the one on advanced runes."

"Please tell Madam Pince that I promise to treat them even better than I treat Teddy. No eating or drinking around them, no folding the pages, no leaving them out in the sun or shut up in the cold. If they get back to her in anything less than perfect condition, she can hex me to dust herself."

McGonagall quipped, "You shouldn't give her ideas," but offered him another quirk of her lips as he packed hundreds of years' worth of writing from his stack and hers into his expandable bag—this one, unfortunately, implying that some poor student might someday be on the receiving end of Harry's innocent exaggeration. "Are you sure you can't stay and catch up?"

If they had been anywhere else in the castle, _anywhere_ else, Harry might have wavered. But they were in Dumbledore's old office. And he could see the portrait Dumbledore's perturbed-but-earnest face behind hers, waiting for the opportunity to pick up the conversation they had unwittingly dropped—and he could not stay, he _could not_. Not if he wanted to retain his composure, and his hard-earned respect.

"Sorry, er, no—I've got many more places to be today. Neville's probably come to tell me that I'm late for another department meeting...?"

Neville latched immediately on to the excuse. "Sure have. I _was_ going to say it in a nicer way though. Make you feel slightly less bad about it."

"Prat."

"Yeah, you're welcome. Guess I should've let you be late by yourself."

He nudged Harry's shoulder playfully, and Harry nudged back, using the burst of warmth he felt to cast a nonverbal _Reducio_ on his bag and pocket it. _Neville is so good._

"Off with you two then," their former professor said softly. Her eyes were oddly misty as she looked at the two of them, heading side-by-side for her office door. "Perhaps another time you can stop by and... clear the air."

This time she _definitely_ glanced between Harry and Dumbledore's portrait; even ignoring her rather pointed words, there was no denying that. But Dumbledore only stared; he did not take the opportunity to speak up. And Harry swallowed, inwardly squirmed, but did not speak either.

"—Might you two at least muster up enough Gryffindor courage to come by again and have tea once you've finished the books?"

_Not bloody likely,_ Harry thought, as he pasted on a smile and said "Right. I'll owl you when things settle down."

"And I'll write a proper answer over his shoulder."

_My God, I think I love this wizard_.

He practically dragged Neville through the door and down the moving staircase after they'd shared polite goodbyes. His posture didn't relax until they were on the other side of the gargoyle, with no sign of McGonagall coming after them. The sudden buzz of distant students was a welcome balm for the tension in his body.

_I am never going back there again._

"...did I just help you run away from Albus Dumbledore's crying portrait?" Neville asked, bemused. He looked like he was about to ask something else, so Harry pulled him in for a hearty snog so he wouldn't have to answer either question. The world faded to the smell of fresh loam and the taste of spearmint. A healthy bit of tongue was exchanged. They both made noises they ought not to have made in earshot of underage witches and wizards.

"Mmph. _Mmmmph._"

Harry pulled away once he felt nearly as upbeat as he'd been at the start of this venture. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Er... are you all right to talk about this tonight?"

"Probably not."

"Okay... are we _actually_ going to owl McGonagall together at some point for tea?"

"Maybe. If we can have it somewhere that isn't within a thousand meters of here."

The brown eyes narrowed (his beau did not believe in indefinitely avoiding one's issues), but Neville found it in himself to (finally) ask the most important question of the afternoon.

"Did you get everything you needed for our mission?"

Harry ran a hand over the shrunken bag of books in his robes, just waiting to be restored and read and referenced, and this time his smile was real _and_ wide.

"Everything and then some. Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Please note that Harry James Potter is an extremely unreliable narrator when it comes to his own feelings.]
> 
> The author sends her condolences to those who have been impacted by COVID-19 in any capacity, as well as her well-wishes to all essential workers. Barring any unpleasant surprises, Chapter 7 will be posted on Friday, July 17.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black lives matter. Trans women are women, and trans men are men. Please keep your minds open, and your respect for those different from you at the ready, as you live your one life.

_10 April 1925_

_Hallerbos Forest (Outskirts)_

_Halle, Belgium_

"Please hold still," Albus Dumbledore requested.

He tried to temper his tone and expression; based on a half-second's examination alone, there was no doubt his poor student's nerves were frayed to near nonexistence, and anything resembling a shout might set her off. Six years of classroom instruction and three months of additional evening lessons had taught him much about Phaedra Lovegood. In tense situations her face might remain blank and her voice even, but her body language never lied—though at this moment he wished it could. She quivered from head to foot as he stared at her; based on the stark-white shade of her face and the way she favored her wand arm, it was not at all from the night's chill.

It would be best not to startle her until he could complete a full diagnosis of her injuries.

_Yet_ _again_, he thought darkly, _my time as a Field Healer in the war comes in handy._

Barring these tiny shivers, Phaedra remained obediently rigid as he slipped his wand from his sleeve and waved it over her in wide ovals. Shimmering orange light waves rippled out from the wood and passed harmlessly over her, from the wispy blonde crown of her hair to her dark, mud-splattered boots. Her nicks and wounds lit up in vermilion: scratches from a fall, minor cuts from what had to be flying debris, and (under respectable bandages and a splint) an especially-nasty reddish glow all along her wand arm. His breath escaped from between his teeth in a hiss: _Confractus, __a deliberate breakage_. A spell meant to incapacitate even the most skilled of witches or wizards.

_Who would do such a thing to a child?_

"I can mend most of this here, and leave the rest to Madam Persimmon's expertise," he told her, after indicating that she could move freely. "It will only take a few moments."

Phaedra nodded. Her eyes were shining. "Thank you, Professor—thank you so much..."

"No need for thanks. I only wish you had not been harmed at all."

"I am more fortunate than many others who were."

Albus lifted one auburn eyebrow, as he twirled his wand and Conjured a high-backed chair for her to rest in. "Would you care," he asked, "to elaborate while I work?"

She did not seem to mind—other than one swift glance at the road behind herself, she complied with nary a sigh or quibble.

"I made it home all right from the Express, but I was kidnapped from home and taken out of the country before I had a chance to have dinner. Our parents had gone out to get Pepper-Up. One moment I was asleep at the table and the next I'd been grabbed and my hand touched to a Portkey, then I was disappearing in front of Cato's eyes..."

Her voice tailed off. Albus had knelt at her feet and was unwrapping by hand the bandages and splint she'd been given, but he glanced up a moment to nod encouragingly at her to continue. "I spoke with him during my search for you. Still, I can only imagine how frightening that moment was for him," he prompted gently, "and for you."

"They didn't take him? He's all right?"

"He is well enough. Your parents have Intruder Charms set up on the premises. You were not gone long before they returned home."

Phaedra exhaled shakily. "That's... good. Good."

"Take a deep breath, Miss Lovegood."

She did; silently Albus incanted _Brackium Emendo_, giving her wand arm the gentlest tap he could manage with his own wand. The girl gave a little moan between gritted teeth as the bone mended itself and her face lost a shade it couldn't afford to, but she held firm in the chair. It likely helped that her good arm had a death grip on one arm of the chair from beginning to end.

"A summary of events will suffice," Albus said, flicking his wand several more times to heal some of her other noticeable scratches and bruises. "The rest can wait until we are elsewhere. Where were you taken, and how did you come to escape?"

"I was brought to a castle—I'm not sure where, now, except that it's miles and miles back past that forest—and invited to a perverse 'Welcoming Feast'. I ended up in a huge room rivaling our Great Hall, but cold with dark shadows writhing on the walls. There were other children there, _many_ others, at least a hundred—and none looked like they wished to be there any more than I did. People were talking in several languages around me and I only heard English that night when someone was telling me what to do. The people who brought me in wore black with a strange symbol on their clothes—an eye in a triangle?—and when they made me sit at the table I saw there were more adults stationed along it, placed in between the children."

_Preventing them from banding together and bolting, of course._

"That's when I learned what had happened to me. _He_ was at the head of the table, and he spoke to me like we were relatives reuniting after a long time apart. I... I had been _selected_, he said, to join his School of Might: a collection of the finest young witches and wizards on the continent. Every young mind there had been watched and selected by him or his professors—and they were going to train us until we were old enough and strong enough to support his greater mission. He said 'my stifled potential would be allowed to flourish'."

"Who was the man that told you this?"

Phaedra met his gaze after a painfully long pause. "The man from the papers," she whispered. "Gellert Grindelwald."

Albus froze. A frisson of excitement lifted the hairs on the back of his neck, betraying the sinking chill of despair that enveloped the rest of him.

Thankfully Phaedra Lovegood, though quite clever, was no Legilimens. She misinterpreted his arrested look as fear rivaling her own, and talked faster as she recounted more of her tale. "I tried to tell him that I was already enrolled at Hogwarts, Professor, I _swear_ I did. But Lord Grindelwald just laughed... all of the adults did, including the men who dragged me in. And the look in his eyes...

"He didn't say anything more about it that night, but I learned later that... that that's just what he _does_—takes students from other schools, or from their homes or orphanages, and 'enrolls' them into his school. And then they stay there forever. Either you 'graduate' and join him in whatever his goals are, or you _fail_ because you won't master the Dark magic he requires, and, and then..."

He waved a hand to cut her off as her light blue eyes welled with tears. The message was clear enough, and true to form: any children that did not fall in line with Grindelwald's wishes disappeared, and not to go back home.

_So this is part of your vision of a greater future, Gellert... acquiring innocent children to torment and indoctrinate._

Albus closed his eyes. He stood. He breathed out slowly, deliberately, as though to expel all his disgust.

"Professor?"

_Ah._ Opening his eyes almost at once, he offered his student a reassuring nod—and a handkerchief from his robes. "My apologies, Miss Lovegood. This is a lot to take in."

Of course, he was blessed with a rather quick brain and no small affinity for putting pieces together with it, so Phaedra did not have long to wipe her eyes and blow her nose before he got to the question which was highest on his list. "It sounds as though Grindelwald took very few chances when it came to keeping the students he recruited inside this castle you have mentioned. How, then, did you escape his clutches?"

And _there_—there was something different in her eyes. Where before they had been watery and full of muted uncertainty and fear, now there was a glimmer of mixed gratitude and self-confidence there.

"I was meant to be practicing a Dark spell before I went down to dinner," she said. "_Inanio_, the void-creating curse that works best on living things... I was in a classroom on the first floor practicing. They'd left me completely alone to do it, but I had lost all hope of being rescued. I realized early on: you hadn't found me any time I squeezed the phoenix pin because there were probably strong spells surrounding the castle, keeping anyone who wasn't approved out."

Albus bowed his head. "The magic informed me that you were in danger, but I was unable to locate you or even Apparate close to wherever you were being held. I have spent some of the past several days struggling to modify your pin from a distance to correct this error."

Phaedra leaned forward in her chair, subconsciously cradling her healed arm. "That evening I kept practicing that spell on the desks and seats. P-Professor Meijer had given me a whole cage of _rats_ to practice on, but I couldn't just put holes in them like that..."

"Quite understandable, my dear."

"I twigged onto it then. The castle felt just as alive as Hogwarts does, only in a different way. Why shouldn't I be able to use that curse to tear a small hole in the walls and the wards and escape? I tried, and it worked—and I ran for all I was worth. I knew England had to be west. But I only made it as far as Hallerbos Forest before I sensed someone following me." She shivered, and her voice was bitter. "Worse luck that it turned out to be Lord Grindelwald himself."

Albus' head shot back up. _Gellert himself after her, and she escapes without a trace of any Dark curse or injury besides a bone-breaker?_

"How did you escape?" he repeated—almost demanded. It took effort to keep his voice under control.

Phaedra smiled for the first time, half-glancing around her chair. "I was rescued by that man over there, Professor. Harry—I mean, Mr. Evans saved me. We found each other in the forest and he agreed to escort me home—that's when Grindelwald came. He stood against him for me..." Her eyes filled again. "He distracted Grindelwald long enough for us to get away. If it wasn't for him, I would be dead."

Albus deliberately followed her gaze for the first time—and there was her savior, standing in the tall grass by the winding road.

It would be a lie to say that he hadn't been aware of another presence, another _wizard_, since the moment he Apparated from Ottery St. Catchpole to Belgium. But his first priority had been assuring Miss Lovegood's safety, followed by finding out just where she had been taken; the stranger would only have been relevant if he had tried to prevent either from happening. His inaction as Albus steadied, healed and debriefed his charge confirmed (or at least indicated) a lack of hostility.

But still—Albus was very, very curious.

Without another moment's delay he pocketed his wand, stepped out of the vegetable garden and closed the distance between himself and the mystery wizard. The other man was tense as a bow (clearly so, even from a distance), but he didn't move to attack or flee. To reassure him, Albus called: "Be at ease. I mean you no harm."

"...All right," a low, steady voice called back. The accent was unfamiliar—but the language was undoubtedly English.

Albus stopped only when there was a person's length between himself and the stranger—the better to look at him over his spectacles and note every exterior detail. He was young—maybe ten years Phaedra's senior—but he stood straight and tall like a soldier awaiting orders. His hair was shoulder-length, black and severely untidy—_perhaps from all the fighting and running?_ Simple black robes overlaid his lean figure and square-shaped glasses framed his angular face. And behind those glasses...

He sucked in a quiet breath.

_Those eyes._

A piercing gaze met his own, distracting him. The eyes were bright green, deeper than gemstones. They seemed to speak a language Albus had not yet happened upon in all his studies, interspersed with flashes of more familiar emotions: fear, uncertainty, resolve. Instinctively he _pushed_ gently at them, seeking information. Was this young man a Legilimens or an Occlumens? A young prodigy, or a wanderer? Where did he come from? What did he want?

_Who are you?_

Unfortunately he received nothing but a strange metal wall of seemingly infinite height, electrified and daring any ignorant soul to tread closer and be fried. _An Occlumens, then_. He withdrew before making contact—it was an unusual defense, and perhaps not very strong, but there was no need to test it. Every man had a right to his secrets.

"I am told that you aided my student in escaping from a terrible fate," he heard himself say. "Please accept my most sincere thanks."

The young man cleared his throat, and shifted awkwardly in place. "I didn't do anything special. Just what anyone would do if someone needed help."

Albus blinked down at him—from closer at hand, his voice was still low, but with a light cadence that drew attention to every word. "What anyone would do...?" he repeated, a little stunned.

"Well... yeah."

_...That is enough information for the time being_, Albus thought, with no small amount of amazement. Phaedra Lovegood's rescuer was a young-but-serious wizard he didn't recognize, with an intense aura and an admirably altruistic nature. He had defended Phaedra against no less than Grindelwald himself—no small feat, and not one a coward would take on. He was mysterious, interesting, remarkable...

His off-topic thoughts had stalled while he gave the other wizard a once-over; now they chimed in unhelpfully. _He is also very handsome._

Hastily Albus cleared _his_ throat, and banished the thought to the dungeons of his mind.

"I am Albus Dumbledore," he said, offering his hand, "Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts School. And whether your doings were special or mundane, I appreciate them, and should like to know the name of the man behind them."

The dark-haired wizard hesitated a moment—something undefinable flashed in his eyes—but after a long moment his shoulders relaxed, and he met Albus' hand with his own. "Harry Evans... it's nice to meet you, Professor."

"And you as well."

Their hands connected, and Albus lingered on the shake for more reasons than one. The first: Harry's hand was warm, rough but comfortable; clearly someone who did more than simple wand-waving or note-taking. It was a nice contrast with Albus' own, cool and smooth from working mostly with quill and parchment; and they fit together comfortably. But it was the second reason which captured more of his attention.

_Dear Merlin..._

He had always been sensitive to magic, whether that meant magical signatures, traces, or injuries left behind by runes or spells. Phaedra's injuries had been evident to this sixth sense of his even before he ran his rudimentary diagnostic. Now that sensitivity of his was acting up again, brought on by close contact with Harry Evans. Multiple signatures floated around the young man: old magic cast on him and on his behalf, some of it cold and bitter and other parts warm and benign—and oddly familiar. It was a dizzying combination of déjà vu and fresh horror that assailed Albus as his own magic subconsciously, belatedly, reached out to the man in front of him and began cataloging a host of recent injuries. _Submersion, Severing Charms, some kind of... leftover shaking. Is this from a Cruciatus Curse?!_

It was. Harry hid it well, staying still like that, but the signs of prolonged torture were clearly evident for anyone versed in Dark magic or the most basic level of Healer's training. A tremor in the hands, lingering pain in the nerves, a barely-perceptible hitch in breathing...

Albus wasn't aware that he'd let go of Harry's hand in favor of cradling Harry's face until he had. His movements felt slow and dreamy, rehearsed for a distant play. He lifted Harry's chin a fraction with his thumb, spread his fingers out to cover the faint scratches on his right cheek. Wandless healing magic warmed his hand, ready to slip under skin and do its work.

"Hey—!"

"Why did you not say you were injured?" he asked in a whisper, still lost in that haze. The chin jerked in his fingers, but at first he didn't notice.

"_Oi_—what're you doing?"

The haze cleared, and Albus blinked, then startled. It took every bit of self-control he possessed to keep a flush from rising to his cheeks when he realized what he'd done: practically _caressed Harry's face_ in an attempt to identify all his injuries. It wasn't at all proper to touch a complete stranger's face that way, no matter how injured he was or how amiable he might seem. He knew _nothing_ about this man, really; observations and assumptions did not breed familiarity.

_What _am_ I doing? What on Earth got into me?_

"My apologies," he murmured at once, hastily pulling his hand away and canceling the spell on his palm. He hoped that he looked as utterly abashed as he felt. "I... glimpsed your wounds, and forgot myself."

"S'okay," Harry shrugged, stepping back. A trail of blood followed his feet. "I know it looks bad." His tone was reassuring, but he still looked slightly uncomfortable, and his own cheeks actually _were_ pink. Albus would have mentally cursed himself for it if Harry hadn't seemed discomfited since the instant they met.

"Grindelwald's doing, I presume?"

The young man nodded. "That and some aggressive trees... Don't worry about it. Now that I've seen Phaedra to you, I can stop by St. Mungo's and get myself straightened out."

_"What?"_

The exclamation came from Albus' immediate left—nowhere near the plush chair he'd created. A quick glance there revealed Phaedra herself: short of breath, unsteady on her feet, and extremely upset. He caught her instinctively with his nearest arm, keeping her upright.

"Steady now."

"You're—you're _leaving_?" she croaked, staring at Harry like he'd said something unbelievable.

For his part, Harry tilted his head to the side, giving her a bemused stare back. "Yes?"

"You're leaving _without us_?"

"Er... yes? There's no need for me to escort you back home now."

"But—!"

"This is a Professor from your school, right? He seems more than capable of keeping you safe."

Albus puffed up despite himself at the compliment—and, yes, at how quickly and accurately his measure had been taken—but Phaedra flinched in his grip, and her voice wavered like a ship in a storm. "But _what about you?"_

Harry opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to dismiss her query—but nothing came out.

The terror and urgency in his student's voice caught Albus' attention, pushed him to inquire after the reason for it. The silence from her rescuer redoubled his anxious curiosity. _What could possibly still have her so frightened?_

He gave her a discerning look over his spectacles. "Miss Lovegood, kindly explain why the idea of Mr. Evans leaving us is distressing."

"Because—because—! _Why wouldn't it be_? Harry saved my life—he put himself in front of Lord Grindelwald, for _me_. If Harry hadn't gotten us away we would have died! But more than that—he threw Lord Grindelwald off his guard—Harry _wounded _him. More than once! And the look on his face after that..."

Harry interrupted with a sharp slice of his hand through the air.

"I'm touched that you're worried about me, Phaedra, really... but don't be. I knew what I was doing when I challenged that man and I don't regret it. I'm not afraid of Grindelwald."

"But I _am!"_ she wailed, surprising them both into silence. "I'm scared _for_ you!"

She began to cry then—her eyes overflowed quicker than either of them could have expected, and soon she was standing and shaking with sobs. After taking a moment to be stunned, Albus reacted at once: his (newly dry) handkerchief immediately went back into Phaedra's possession, and he let go of her arm to give her cautious but soothing pats on the back. "Calm yourself, Miss Lovegood," he murmured; "you are safe here. And so is your companion. Mr. Evans is in no danger."

"B-b-but he's n-n-_not_ safe," Phaedra hiccoughed. "If h-he's going off alone he c-could be found b-by Lord Gr-Grindelwald at any t-time! A-And if he finds Harry i-injured and b-by himself he'll, he'll...!"

She dissolved into tears once more.

Harry took a step forward towards them both, but paused. The uncomfortable expression on his face was long gone; now he looked awkward for an entirely different reason. "Phaedra..."

"_Please_, Harry! Please d-don't go away on your own. Grindelwald—"

"He won't find me," Harry declared. But even to Albus' ears he didn't sound sure.

"Wh-wh-what if he _does_? Wh-what will you _do_?"

Once again, Harry did not—or perhaps could not—answer her.

As Phaedra sniffled and dabbed desperately at her eyes, Albus moved his hand to her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Would you like a moment to compose yourself?" he asked solicitously; when she gasped and gratefully nodded he withdrew from her side, walking over to Harry's instead.

"Might I speak with you a moment in private?"

"Er..." Harry glanced at the trembling girl with noticeable concern, but he seemed unwilling to disturb her while she tried to calm herself down. "Of course, sir."

They walked a short distance away, both taking pains to keep her in sight. Albus withdrew his wand and drew the rune for silence around the two of them, the better to ensure that neither Phaedra nor anyone else heard their conversation. Once that was taken care of, he began without preamble.

"Mr. Evans, I feel it would be poor repayment indeed if I were to let you leave here alone, only to hear that you suffered misfortune or worse at Gellert Grindelwald's hands."

"You don't owe me a thing," Harry said at once. "And Phaedra doesn't either."

"Your chivalry is becoming," Albus replied, only partly teasing, "but unnecessary. I have no doubt that a wizard who can walk away mostly intact from an encounter with Grindelwald can handle himself. I do not seek to impugn your abilities, and I do not think Miss Lovegood does either. She is simply worried."

_As I am._

"Miss Lovegood has suffered an extremely traumatic event. Being held against one's will is stressful enough, but escaping captivity only to be hunted down and nearly killed by your captor... I am sure you can understand why she is clinging to those she feels can provide her with safety and security."

Harry nodded, and appeared to study his hands. "...I do understand. She thinks I can protect her."

Albus corrected him gently. "She _knows_ you can protect her, given that you have previously done so. And she knows that if need be, _I_ can protect _you_."

"But—but—respectfully, Professor, doesn't it make more sense for us to go our separate ways here? Not that I'm not... flattered... that you're willing to look after some bloke you've never met, but it's not very practical. I'm no match against Grindelwald in a fair fight and I'd slow you down as part of a pair—it makes no sense to keep me and Phaedra close together as one target. If I can convince Grindelwald to come after me instead and leave you and Phaedra alone—"

"—you will be tracked, captured and tortured," the Transfiguration professor finished for him. "And if you are very fortunate, and he does not find some 'better' use to put you to, you will eventually be killed."

The younger man blinked rapidly but didn't say a word: again, not refuting a rather harsh analysis.

"May I ask your destination?" Albus pressed—_gently, gently_—when the silence stretched. "Perhaps we can come to an agreement."

That same pink flush came over Harry's face again; for a moment, it made him look nearly as young as any Hogwarts student. "I... am headed back to England myself, actually. Around London. I mentioned it to her earlier."

The news made Albus want to clap his hands—he only just refrained. "How fortuitous! With that in mind, could I persuade you to accompany us back to the village called Hogsmeade? It is just outside of Hogwarts and allows Apparition, Portkeys, the Floo—whatever method you might need to travel elsewhere once your escort is complete. I think completing the trip from here to there together will do wonders in alleviating Miss Lovegood's worries."

Hesitation made a home on Harry's face, furrowing his brows and catching his lip. But eventually he closed his eyes and nodded again. "I guess that's not too much to ask. Consider me, er... _persuaded_."

Albus exclaimed "Excellent!" as he felt relief bloom in his chest, warm and bracing. "Then if that is settled, we ought to be on our way now, lest the rest of the night get away from us."

"All right... To Calais, then?"

"Yes indeed. But first..."

He indicated his wand, now held loosely at his side—and Harry warily followed his gaze.

"May I heal you?" he asked tentatively. "I believe I have enough training to take care of any wounds you have, so long as they are not life-threatening."

He expected Harry to decline—dreaded it, actually—but he focused on keeping his face impassive, not displaying any anticipation. _I mustn't startle him._ He had already unintentionally unnerved the other man; optimistically, he could only hope to improve his standing with him. Traveling together for the next couple of days would give Albus plenty of time to make up for his earlier forwardness.

His pesky off-topic voice piped up again—this time with an observation far more grave. _It will also give me time to take his measure, and determine where his loyalties lie._

This time he did not push his thoughts aside, because they were sensible—were right. In his relief at finding Phaedra Lovegood safe and mostly intact, he had briefly forgotten that even the Darkest wizards could wear good intentions and a charming smile.

Harry surprised him once more, this time by agreeing without protesting beforehand. "It _would_ be brilliant to be able to walk without limping again..."

"I concur." Albus felt his moustache twitch against his will. "If you'll allow me—"

He pointed his wand at Harry's face and swept it down in an arc from there, being careful not to touch any of the injuries he could (and couldn't) see. "_Episkey_," he murmured, watching with satisfaction as the tiny cuts and scratches on Harry's face and hands disappeared. He muttered another spell for clearing the airway and lungs of swallowed water. And he added several nonverbal healing charms to heal, clean and re-bandage the leg that appeared to have had a run-in with the Severing Charm he had detected earlier—Harry showed his appreciation for this with closed eyes and a long, clearer-sounding sigh.

"Thank you," he mumbled, once the tingle of Albus' magic had gone up and away with his wand.

"No trouble at all. Now—I think it is a good time to return to Miss Lovegood's side."

"Oh! Er, sure. Ready when you are."

Albus took the lead, with Harry falling into step behind him, and a moment later the silencing rune around them rippled and broke. He paid the finished magic no heed, focused as he was on checking in with his charge.

Phaedra had used her brief solitude well. By the time the two men rejoined her, her face was dry and neither flushed nor pale; her wand had been out at some point, since some of the tears in the fine grayish-blue dress she wore were gone. She still looked a little anxious, however, and even Albus' sharp eyes weren't necessary to spot the pink tinge to her eyes or the dampness of his poor handkerchief, currently being wrung between her hands.

"Professor Dumbledore?" she asked, in an uncharacteristically small voice.

Albus saw no reason to leave her in suspense. "Mr. Evans and myself have agreed to a compromise: he will accompany us from Calais to Hogsmeade, after which we will go our separate ways. So we shall be a trio—however," he added in warning as her eyes lit up and she nearly danced in place, "my expectations for you are unchanged. I will still be your chaperone and he will be our guest. You will comport yourself with all the proper decorum of a Hogwarts student—is that understood?"

"Perfectly, Professor! I swear it."

"Excellent! Well—" Albus actually did clap his hands this time, looking between Phaedra and Harry. "I do believe we are ready to depart for France. That humble country road just over there looks suitable, don't you agree?"

"Er..."

The path twisted off into the distant darkness, unthreatening but certainly unknown. Harry gave said road a long, skeptical look, but didn't say anything else.

But reliably curious Phaedra came through. "How will we be traveling, sir? On foot?"

"Oh, goodness no. I couldn't ask that of you even with many of your injuries seen to. Rather, we'll be needing a form of transport befitting a young lady. Perhaps a horse-drawn carriage...?"

There was none in the immediate vicinity, of course—their only neighbors out here in the grass were the distant backdrop of Hallerbos Forest and the quaint little cottage and garden he had Apparated into, following the warm pulse of Phaedra's phoenix pin. It seemed the Muggles who likely lived in the home had no carriage of their own (not that Albus wouldn't have felt horribly guilty about 'borrowing' it), and no horses or goats were currently availing themselves of the garden's handsome radishes and parsnips, so the only solution was to... _ah._

_Sometimes, _Albus thought ruefully, _I forget that I am a wizard._

He turned to his adult companion. "Tell me, Mr. Evans: how much in pounds sterling do you believe I should leave this humble family for the outrageous amount of vegetables I will need to purchase from them?"

The young man startled, then stammered. "Er, well... I... wasn't the best at maths, could you give me a moment?" When Albus nodded graciously, he turned away and closed his eyes to concentrate, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. The answer he came back with after a fashion sounded reasonable enough, _and _it confirmed for the Professor that their traveling companion was at least passably familiar with Muggle life. Phaedra's puzzled look hadn't yet abated, but Harry at least had lived in mixed environments. _Most wizards would have simply thrust a handful of gold at me_.

"I've got a bit of Muggle money myself, I can—"

This time it was Albus who jumped a little, at the offer and the speed thereof. _Is he a Legilimens too?_ But no—Harry, recovered from being caught off guard earlier, now looked so _earnest_; hardly like someone who'd just poked around in Albus' recent thoughts. "That is kind of you, but worry not—I have our fare. It does do to be prepared for any eventuality in times like these." And he pulled the necessary bills from a handy pocket in his robes. Not his favorite pocket (that held sweets, when he could find them) but close enough.

"_Depulso_."

The money to pay for most of the garden produce flew off, Banished neatly to the modest-but-clean front stoop of the cottage. It laid there neatly as a bit of twine appeared and tied it tight. Albus flicked his wand again and a bunch of cabbages, pumpkins, and tomatoes formed an orderly line and bounced over to them.

"This is all we'll be needing, I think," he confirmed, after a cheerful count.

There was a brief pause. Phaedra coughed delicately.

"...These are garden vegetables," Harry said slowly.

"So they are, my good fellow—and fruits too. But to a man with a Transfiguration Mastery, they can also rise to become quite a bit more than that."

Harry and Phaedra perked up at the same time. Albus granted them both a wink as he swept his wand in wide circles over every bit of food, watching with no small amount of delight and satisfaction as they grew and changed shape.

Transfiguration had suited Albus for over thirty years, and tonight was no different. The magic came easily, spurred by curiosity and regulated by rigid self-discipline. He was constantly awed and inspired by how mutable things were, be they animal, vegetable or mineral; taking elements from one object and merging them with another was no less fascinating. His current idea was a germ from an old Muggle fairytale he'd caught a recounting of once in France, and it had the potential to solve their problems now as nicely as it had for the young girl in the story.

Switching four of the cabbages into tall wooden wheels was effortless; making the thing they would support took a little more precision. The largest and most robust pumpkin grew the fastest, until it dwarfed even Albus in height, and an additional jab easily transformed it into a fine carriage with identical bronze doors on either side. Its lurid orange skin darkened bit by bit to a much more agreeable indigo. (Based on Phaedra's sudden appreciative _ah_, Albus knew she had caught the subtle-but-playful reference.) And the tomatoes grew and lengthened into a handsome pair of chestnut horses last of all, properly hooked and ready to pull them to their destination.

"All finished," he proclaimed happily.

Harry stared from the carriage to the horses with open appreciation on his face. His eyes lit up with what looked like familiarity as he whistled; perhaps he too was familiar with the tale? "That's brilliant."

"Why, thank you."

Phaedra hurried forward to lay one delicate hand on the side of the carriage. "Wouldn't it have been simpler and faster to Conjure a carriage instead, Professor?"

"In the short-term," Albus agreed, gesturing to the carriage door on their side and crooking his finger—it popped open at once. "But Conjurations are typically not permanent nor long-lasting, and it would be quite inconvenient and uncomfortable if mine were to wear off on one of these dusty roads and send us tumbling into the mud. There are approximately ten hours between us and Calais, and we ought to be safe and secure the whole way. Now—"

He stepped forward so that he was even with the iron step of their transport, and held his arm out to her.

"—shall we, Miss Lovegood?"

She perked up like a flower again and hurried over—a moment more and she slipped her hand into his, allowing him to help her into the carriage. A quick glance inside showed him that she was making herself comfortable on the velvet cushions.

Satisfied, Albus turned to face Harry. This time his arm swept out dramatically, and a little more playfully. "Shall we, Mr. Evans?"

The younger man snorted as he approached. He lifted his hand to push Albus' own aside, politely but firmly. "Thanks," he muttered as he disappeared inside, "but I'm no schoolgirl."

There was no extra warmth or tingle of magic when their hands touched this time; still, Albus chuckled as he watched Harry make a show of settling himself on the opposite side of the carriage from Phaedra, glancing back at him all the while. He felt a swell of relief. _Perhaps I haven't unnerved him so badly after all, if he is willing to make such casual contact after earlier._ He had to bend gracefully to enter last, and wasted no time in tapping the roof of their space with his wand once he was seated next to his student.

"Off we go!"

Urged forward by gentle side-squeezes from an invisible conductor, the horses snorted and settled into an easy trot, sending them forward down the dirt lane toward civilization.

"Thank you for accompanying us, Harry," Phaedra said almost immediately. Her eyes looked a little less pink, but she clearly expected her savior to change his mind and leap out of their transport at any moment. "I'm happy you are coming along."

"It's nothing, really. We were going the same way anyway."

"Even so! You'll get to see Hogwarts! The castle is wonderful, I just know you'll love it."

"I'm sure I will."

"You have never been to Hogwarts?" Albus asked at once. He hadn't recognized Harry from Hogwarts or elsewhere, but had assumed that was only happenstance; that perhaps he'd attended and finished before Albus started teaching.

Harry shifted in his seat. "Er, no sir. It's a long story... but I was home-schooled." He changed the subject, looking quite embarrassed. "Phaedra? Why don't you tell me a little _about_ the school, since we have time...?"

_The perfect thing to ask_, Albus thought approvingly. Any lingering discomfort or anxiety about her experiences in Grindelwald's clutches, dangerously near the top of her mind now that they would all have to be still for several hours, would now have to bow to her excitement about sharing a treasured place with a new friend. It helped that the girl had a knack for instruction.

She began straight away with a brief but acceptable history of the Founders. "...they all had differing backgrounds and talents, which made the castle they chose to make their home all the stronger. Godric Gryffindor made alliances with the magical folk and creatures who called the place home, promising them both protection from outside forces and noninterference the rest of the time. Rowena Ravenclaw constructed wards and protective charms from the language of Magic itself, one we've long forgotten, that would grow with the castle as it aged, like a second skin—quite brilliant of her, truly. Helga Hufflepuff had a knack for finding things and so she was the one who was sent to locate lodestones, and safe methods of transporting young people, as well as the young people themselves—whether that meant sending up sparkling messages in all-wizard communities or following whispers of 'curious' children in Muggle ones. And Salazar Slytherin was their visionary—the one who procured more funding for their students, more space for magical people, and who fashioned new roles for young people to take up once they had come of age and finished Hogwarts."

"That's... amazing." Harry's eyebrows went quite high up on his forehead. "And these people... tutored students on top of all that?"

"Yes, according to their preferences."

"'Preferences'?"

"The Houses!" Phaedra leaned forward, only wincing a bit at her recently-healed arm. Still, Albus watched her carefully for any other signs of pain. "There weren't really any at first, or so the old records say—but as more children came to the school they had to find some way of keeping track of who had scouted whom, to reduce poaching between the Founders. No one knows whose idea it was to create Houses and name them for the Founders—though most of us today suspect Gryffindor, of course—but it has stuck for the purposes of Sorting, and here we are."

Harry asked, "How can the sorting carry on, though? You say these Founders are long gone. How are you to know what they 'prefer'?"

"With magic, of course! I won't let slip the finer details—"

"—there is a Sorting Hat," Albus supplied, and gave the suddenly-sulky girl to his right an overly-innocent shrug.

"—_but_ it allows students to be placed in the House which best signifies their personality and will enhance all their best qualities. And the worst ones too, to be honest. Depending on what the Hat decides, you're put in Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, where you then spend the next seven years training to be the finest witch—or wizard—the school has."

There was a low hum of understanding from Harry then. "I see..." But then he frowned. "You spend seven years in the House you were placed in one time as a child?"

Phaedra nodded. "It _sounds_ mad, I know. People change, don't they, and children most of all—but somehow it _works_ every time. We either enhance the qualities of the House which the Hat and the school already saw in us, or we grow naturally into them as we live together with like-minded peers. Not that that doesn't mean people don't ever have qualities from more than one House! Sometimes the Hat takes a long, long time to decide on someone's place—not often, but it does happen."

"And the House qualities—?"

"Gryffindors are daring and chivalrous, almost to the point of madness; Ravenclaws are brilliant and endlessly curious, even when they ought not to be; Hufflepuffs are extremely loyal, hardworking and almost dangerously inclusive; and Slytherins are ambitious, clever and almost dangerously _ex_clusive."

"Doesn't sound _too_ mad. So—what House are _you_ in then?"

She gasped. "You couldn't tell just by speaking with me all this time??"

_"Hmmm_," Harry drawled, looking her over and dragging the consonant out longer and longer by the second. Phaedra sputtered, and Albus didn't bother to hold back another chuckle.

"Harry!"

"I'm sorry, this is new to me! You've _got_ to give me more time to guess."

"I'm a Ravenclaw!"

_"Ohhh!_ Well—I'll admit, I was about to guess Gryffindor, what with that _daring_ talking-to-strangers bit you pulled in the forest—"

"_Har_-ry!"

"—but since you've spoiled the fun of me figuring it out on my own—"

"Professor!" Phaedra pleaded, turning to Albus with flushed cheeks and clasped hands. "Tell him I'm bright, sir, please! A credit to Lady Rowena's House!"

Albus was sorely tempted to tease her, just to keep the mood lighthearted. _But perhaps only a little_. He saw, too, her innocent desire to impress her new older friend. In the end he took pity on her. "Miss Lovegood _is_ very bright," he told Harry. "A very good student. One of the brightest of our sixth years."

"_And_ I'm Professor Dumbledore's apprentice!" the girl added, puffing herself up as proudly as any of Albus' Gryffindors might.

"Wha—?"

Albus cleared his throat audibly at that, and quickly clarified. "Miss Lovegood is _also_ currently _studying_ to become my apprentice in Transfiguration, and then only once she graduates with honor from Hogwarts and fulfills additional requirements. I do not take apprentices often, you see, and when I do I only accept the best in the country."

Sulking again, Phaedra leaned back. She murmured something that sounded like _unbelievable_, and _semantics_, and _basically _am _his apprentice by now_. Harry looked like he wanted to laugh, but was kind enough to mask the expression and hold it in.

"Tell me something else. What classes do you have at Hogwarts? Which ones are the best? And what do you do for fun there?"

Harry's questions were quite broad, but Phaedra leapt immediately into answering each one in astounding detail as they came. Albus chimed in where he could, whether to bolster gaps in his charge's knowledge, downplay embellishments, or to redirect away from subjects he thought best kept from a stranger's ears—but mostly he kept quiet, and listened, and learned. Before he knew it an hour had passed this way, and then another, with no sign of the younger two slowing down other than a slight hoarseness of their voices.

He found himself feeling strangely content with his current circumstances: hundreds of miles away from the castle he called home, yes, but situated quite safely and comfortably in a carriage with one of his long-lost students and someone new and exciting. Albus deliberated silently on how he should feel (and act) for the rest of the trip—or he tried to, only to be distracted by an indignant huff from Phaedra, or a husky chortle from Harry. After this happened several times he gave up completely on self-regulation, on the idea of being still and stiff and mostly quiet, and joined the others' conversation in earnest. There were plenty of hours left to go and many more topics waiting to be explored.

And it felt quite nice, to live in the present like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Because I know _I_ would need to know as a reader—Harry is twenty-seven, and Albus is forty-three.]
> 
> The author is currently busy signing petitions, making sure she's registered to vote, amplifying others' voices, and finding other ways to assert that her Black life matters. While that continues, Chapter 8 will arrive on Friday, August 7.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bonjour_, Calais! A hundred thousand thanks to Tshan for their improvements on French words and phrasing in this chapter!

_11 April 1925_

_Campagne Woods_

_Calais, France_

Harry stirred when the wheels spinning busily under him finally came to a stop.

Without moving a muscle, he took in his surroundings through half-lidded eyes. His last memory was looking out through the carriage door at a sea of brown dirt and green grass—but at some point they must have pulled off the road before arriving, unless the short grass and tall trees around them meant that Calais was a lot more _woody_ eighty-plus years ago.

He couldn't remember drifting off at all. He'd meant to stay up the duration of the trip, keeping a lookout for trouble, but that clearly hadn't happened. So what _had_? Why had he been distracted enough to fall asleep? There _was_ a hazy recollection of asking Phaedra Lovegood something about why the bloody hell she liked Transfiguration so much, but surely a bit of conversation wouldn't—

A chill danced down his spine.

_The forest._

_Phaedra Lovegood._

_Grindelwald._

_Dumbledore._

He groaned internally, squeezing his eyes shut. _Holy shite, I have bollocksed this up and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours._

Director Robards was going to _kill_ him when he got back, _if_ he got back, and he would deserve it. Meeting one influential cog in wizarding history was bad enough—meeting two, _especially_ when the latter wasn't supposed to meet you properly for another _sixty-seven years_, might be enough for her to throw him into the Veil herself. Who knew what dominoes he might've knocked over by putting himself between an innocent girl, a sadistic Dark Lord and an eccentric powerhouse?

_And yet_.

He blew out a quiet breath. No matter what the consequences were, there was no forgetting the vulnerable look on Phaedra's face when he'd come across her in Hallerbos. No sweeping away the fear in her eyes when they'd been surrounded by fire and forced to face down a devil. He had changed a lot in ten years, but he hadn't changed enough to walk away from someone in need like that; he probably never would.

Even when he ought to.

_Relax. You know what protocol is for situations like this. As long as you keep your distance and do what you're meant to do when the time comes, everything will be fine. Just focus on keeping your promise to these two first_—_the second you're done, you can go right back to hunting down that prick._

The pep talk worked: his anxiety plummeted, his thoughts stopped zooming in circles, and some of his confidence returned. Not all, but enough to be going on with.

Harry opened his eyes and Albus Dumbledore was the first thing he saw.

This time though, he was half-expecting it, and so didn't freeze up, stammer or produce any of the _other_ awkward reactions he'd had in Belgium. Then, Harry was forced to process meeting a man he had lost eleven years ago, someone who _should have_ known him but would _not_ know him for some time—and then for only a handful of quick, wasted years. Now he'd spent several hours in a small-but-comfortable carriage with the same man sitting just across from him and making casual conversation; it made things slightly more comfortable for him.

Now he was just locking eyes with a genial man with slightly-mussed auburn hair and a curious look on his face.

"Ah, you're awake," he said softly. "I'm pleased to inform you that we have just arrived at the outskirts of Calais, well out of sight of any curious Muggles."

Harry sat up at once, then winced at a slight burn in one of his shoulders. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. I figured we would trade off watching the road, in case of an attack—"

Dumbledore hushed him with one head-shake. "It's all right. The night was so peaceful that I drifted off more than once myself. We have all made it here safely, so there is no harm done."

"What time is it...?"

"Half-past eight in the morning. We made excellent time."

That explained the pink streaks of light in the sky, only just beginning to fade to blue. Harry tried and failed to stifle a yawn.

"So what's our next move from here, Professor? I assume we don't want to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary, right?"

"Indeed not. Our objective is to board the most convenient train from here to London—or Dover, if we cannot manage London. However, there are a few errands we must run if we wish to continue traveling inconspicuously." Dumbledore tilted his head and gave Harry an appraising look. "How anxious are you to be on your way, Mr. Evans?"

Harry tried to shrug. His shoulder made that more difficult than it should have been. "Don't they say 'haste makes waste'? I'm at your disposal right now. Got nothing but time."

_Literally_.

"I have several friends living all over the continent. One couple in particular happens to live here in Calais... I think it would be prudent to seek shelter with them, until we can determine that we have not been followed."

"And if we have been?" Harry asked, and stared more firmly at the equally-intent blue eyes across from him, searching for clarity. "If one of Grindelwald's people _has_ come after us, shouldn't we be on the first train out of this place, and the quicker the better?"

He didn't get much from his observation—although the light in Dumbledore's eyes _did_ flicker a little when he said Grindelwald's name, he was otherwise as inscrutable as ever.

"Perhaps. On the other hand... I find equally disturbing the possibility of boarding the same transport as my pursuers, at the same time."

_Right_. Even for a wizard of Dumbledore's caliber (_and what _is_ his caliber, in 1925?_), one quick encounter with a clever wizard holding a Portkey would land them all back where Phaedra had started out, and much worse off. And that was if they didn't just hex them into mush on the train.

"Proceed with caution, then," he agreed. "All right. I'll keep following your lead."

"I appreciate it."

Something had been niggling at the back of Harry's mind as he watched Dumbledore lean out of the window of the bronze carriage door and check their surroundings, and the way the man only half-turned away to look about confirmed it: there had been no sparkle in his eyes as he spoke with Harry, even when Harry said something he obviously agreed with or approved of. He was too used to the amused, almost friendly light that used to dance in his mentor's eyes not to notice when it was, well, noticeably absent.

That absence _could_ mean that Dumbledore was an impostor—but Harry knew better. The moment their hands had touched near that cottage, he had recognized his former headmaster's magic and presence. (In fact, the extra spark of warmth when they collided had _worried_ him so much that he had feared he'd somehow been recognized when he shouldn't have been. He had resolved to inquire with the Director later about just what the hell had happened.) No, the absence of that twinkle, and the special smile Harry considered reserved for him, pointed to a more sensible conclusion.

Dumbledore did not trust him.

It made sense, of course. Harry had appeared out of nowhere, yet conveniently where he was needed most, and _happened_ to rescue a student who had been held hostage for four months—and had done so by dueling the one person neither he nor that student should have been able to get away from. Dumbledore hadn't even heard the details of how Harry had managed it—he had, instead, seemed equal parts impressed and bewildered with Harry for pulling it off at all. Gratitude at Harry's stellar timing could really only last so long. If the Potter luck was still going strong, suspicion had already taken root and choked all that gratitude out.

It was sensible of Dumbledore to have reservations about Harry Evans—logical, reasonable, rational. Harry Evans could be anyone—a thief, a predator, an opportunist. A _plant_, even, sent from Grindelwald so Phaedra might let her guard down and be all the more discouraged when she was easily recaptured by her 'rescuer'. No one would think Dumbledore was mad if he waited until Phaedra's back was turned and hit Harry with enough _Incarcerous _spells to down a kelpie, while he extracted by force Harry's allegiance, birthplace, job, and even scar and birthmark locations. Harry Evans would be proud enough of him to offer him an early Order of Merlin.

No, Dumbledore clearly didn't trust Harry Evans. And he _shouldn't_. What did it matter if that hurt Harry Potter's feelings?

A gentle noise startled him out of his thoughts: Dumbledore had cleared his throat and was once again sitting up straight, meeting Harry's gaze.

"My Transformation will wear off soon," he murmured. "We should be on our way. Would you like to wake Miss Lovegood, or shall I?"

"Oh—" Harry blushed; he had almost entirely forgotten she was there. A quick glance ahead and to his left found Phaedra curled against Dumbledore's right shoulder, sleeping soundly. "Er, you can, I guess."

"Very well then—after you."

Dumbledore indicated the door; Harry nodded and pushed it gently open, hopping out while the Professor turned to rouse his charge. He'd half-expected the man to offer his hand like he had before, to help Harry down like he was some sort of prince needing escort. Though it had clearly been a joke, he couldn't fight the twinge of disappointment that the moment of levity was so quickly forgotten.

_Maybe I was too rude, pushing his hand away like_ _that_. But he couldn't help his instincts. People seldom ever touched Harry in a positive way, as an adult. As a child he'd had it much worse. When Dumbledore had stroked his face earlier, and then offered his hand for the carriage (to a _stranger_), it had unmoored him. Then and now, all Harry could think was: _I can probably count on one hand the number of times we ever touched before_.

He blinked. That came out sounding far more sensitive than he thought it would.

_Get back on track_, he chided himself, while using the open space to stretch and work out the kink in his shoulder. _Time enough later to worry about touching people or having them touch you_. He trotted over to check on the horses too, and was close enough to hear everything his traveling companions were saying as he did.

"Wake up, Miss Lovegood."

"Mmm...?"

"We have arrived, my dear."

"Calais already, sir?"

"Indeed so. We will be taking a mild detour to a safe location, while I ensure that we are in no danger."

Phaedra said something Harry couldn't hear. He _could_ hear the exact moment she realized he wasn't in the carriage with them any longer.

"Professor—! Where's Harry? Where did he go?! Don't—don't tell me he's—"

"—just outside," Dumbledore said soothingly. "He awoke shortly before you did. And a good thing too—your new friend has a tendency to snore."

Harry sputtered and yelped "I do _not_ snore!" before his brain caught up with his mouth. He heard Dumbledore chuckle and Phaedra giggle, and his cheeks flushed cherry-red.

The Professor descended gracefully out of the carriage a moment later, turning to help Phaedra out as smoothly as he had helped her in. The young woman looked more than a little relieved as she hurried over to Harry.

"Thought I'd wandered off?" he asked her shrewdly.

To her credit, she didn't shy away or play dumb. _Though as a Ravenclaw, I guess that wouldn't be in her nature._ "You did nearly do that earlier."

"That was ten hours and _many_ miles ago," Harry said, flashing her an overly-sweet smile. Phaedra wrinkled her nose at him.

"You _do_ snore."

"I do _not! _And—and you weren't even _awake_ when I fell asleep!"

She stood up straighter. "Well, I believe Professor Dumbledore."

"Watch it, _kid_. Professor Dumbledore won't get here fast enough if I decide to jinx you."

"Won't I?" Dumbledore asked playfully from—_whoa_, from _much_ closer than he had been a minute ago. It took everything in Harry not to squeal like a girl or jump a foot in the air.

_Nice move, Potter. He definitely won't watch you like a hawk after fake-threatening his student._

"I swear I was joking," he said hastily.

"Certainly you were. Miss Lovegood, join me a moment? There are a few more things we should discuss before your return to Hogwarts."

She scampered off. Harry turned his attention to the horses, which were snorting restlessly and pawing the ground.

"At ease," he murmured to each, keeping still until they relaxed. The closest one was treated to fingers brushing briefly through his mane when he took a little longer to calm; he liked it so much that he quickly decided Harry's time and hands were free for him to monopolize. "Quit nudging me," Harry ordered, which didn't work at all. "Ah, fine. What will a few more neck-rubs hurt?"

The chestnut snorted again, neck-rubs and all. He reminded Harry a little too much of the inanimate (but still rather cheeky) blue sphere in his robe pocket. _As if I need another temperamental _anything_ telling me what to do._

"I can't believe you were a tomato eleven hours ago."

The horse whinnied.

"Behave. I've got stuff to figure out; the less distractions, the better."

The words might have triggered what came next, or the distraction might have been completely inevitable: for the first time since stepping through his individual spacetime portal, Harry felt a familiar, bracing warmth burn against the skin under his collarbone.

_Harry._

** _Harry!_ **

_HARRY._

A prickle of excitement rippled through him, and he reached immediately into the collar of his robes, under the Muggle clothes. _The locket_.

It only took a second for him to find the chain and pull the trinket free—and as soon as he did, the warmth subsided and the voices echoing from within dimmed to a more manageable level.

The lockets were Hermione's creation, naturally. Ron's idea, but she was the brains behind the execution—they had all wanted a way to keep in touch when one of them, or _more_ of them, were on missions which spanned multiple times and countries. The longer Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville worked as Correctors, the more likely it was that two or more of them were stuck in, say, 1215 and 1950, unable to communicate for weeks or even months.

Ginny had started things off one night, lounging upside-down on Ron's sofa. _There has to be some way we can talk to one another across time._

_Like what? _Ron had asked. _The Floo's limited to fireplaces. Owls can only carry letters in the present. And our DA Galleons only let you update them with bloody dates! It'd be different if we had something we could talk into in real-time_—

Past-Harry had shot up at once. _Walkie-talkies!_

_Walkie-what?_

And then Hermione had caught on. _Ron, Harry, that's perfect! Ron, what you're talking about already exists! Walkie-talkies (or two-way radios) are Muggle electronic devices that let you speak into them and be immediately heard by whoever has the other matching ones! I'm sure I can use magic to create something similar_—

—_and then the six of us can speak no matter how far apart we are, _Luna had finished. Her smile had been radiant.

But Neville's expression had just been bemused. _Magic won't work on most Muggle technology though. What will you do instead_—_enchant something, maybe?_

_Maybe_.

Harry was never quite sure what Hermione had done to the six identical gold lockets she procured from Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment; but whether it was charms, runes or some other branch of magic, they all had worked perfectly during the trio's short-lived trip to 1991. A simple squeeze in the hand enabled the user to whisper whatever message they wished in earshot. The lockets were also sensitive to the wearer's physical and emotional status to an extent: serious injuries or emotional upheavals transmitted quite well. Their only limitation was time itself: all the incoming messages took longer to receive depending on how far the user was away from the present day.

That meant the panicked calls from his friends were probably nearly half a day old—likely provoked by his encounter with Grindelwald, and the injuries he'd sustained in the process.

_Harry, are you all right?!_

_Mate, please respond._

_Even my Wrackspurts heard your scream_.

Sighing, Harry took the circular center in his wand hand and squeezed. "I'm fine, everyone," he muttered, trying to sound as comforting as he could. "Ran into a nutter who tried to kill me and the girl I was protecting almost right away, but we got away okay. Sorry to worry you."

Luck was with him, and the next replies only took a few minutes.

_Oh, thank Merlin._

_A nutter who tried to kill you!? _Ginny repeated. There was a clear note of hysteria in her voice. A little strange, since she should be used to people trying to kill Harry by now.

_Maybe you could clarify? _Hermione prodded gently. That was normally Neville's role, but only four voices had called for Harry and heated his locket; his ex's voice was conspicuously absent. He forced himself to ignore it.

"Not much to tell. Grindelwald kidnapped a Hogwarts student, but I managed to get her away from him."

**_Grindelwald?!_** Ron sputtered three minutes later.

"Yeah, but Phaedra's fine now. And I am too. I can't say much more, except, well—Luna, I'm pretty sure she's your ancestor. Her last name's Lovegood."

Now that she was no longer worried for his health, Luna's voice came through the locket slowly and dreamily, as if she were half-asleep while talking into hers. _My ancestor? That's so interesting. And very sweet of you, Harry, to rescue her like the prince in a fairytale._

"Quit it—it wasn't like that."

_We'll see, won't we? Her name sounds familiar... I will check with Daddy about the family tree. Are you somewhere safe?_

Harry glanced from the vanishing indigo carriage to the road leading into Calais proper, to wherever Dumbledore's 'friends' might live. "Almost."

_Focus on _making_ it somewhere safe before you contact us again,_ Hermione admonished. How quickly she forgot that the whispers and skin-burning she'd set up for their lockets weren't so easy to ignore!

_Unless there's an emergency!_ Ginny added.

"I'll do my best."

_You'd better_, Ron ordered. There was a pause that was so long that Harry thought he didn't have any more messages—but then his best mate spoke up again. _Er... Neville sends his regards._

Hmm.

Harry let the words float in circles around his head for a few more minutes, working his jaw and not saying a word. Eventually though, he squeezed his locket one last time.

"Thanks. Later."

He tucked the trinket back under his clothes just in time; by the time he'd laid his hand back on the neglected horse in front of him, Dumbledore had reappeared a few paces away.

"Time to go."

"Er—sure thing."

Dumbledore's eyes flicked quickly over Harry, taking in his relaxed posture and the very dedicated pat-down he was giving to what was at best a complex Transfiguration. In a welcome change, Harry was sure this time that he saw a glint of humor brighten the blue.

"Are you petting a garden fruit, Mr. Evans?"

"...He's a very good tomato," he said seriously.

_Ah_. Moustache quivers too. Definitely amusement. _That_ Harry could work with.

They kept Phaedra between them as they walked, despite her vocal protests.

Calais had its fair share of wizards, but very few of them moved around in full regalia in the daytime. Harry would have fared a little better in all black, been able to fade into the background—but Phaedra and Dumbledore, in blue and plum, would have more trouble blending in.

The professor had come up with a solution as they left the park (turns out, they _weren't_ in some other forest after all, though Harry could be forgiven for thinking otherwise). One twitch of his wand brought them three identical floor-length traveling cloaks in startlingly-modest slate gray. Now they moved shoulder-to-shoulder through the streets toward 82 Rue Voltaire, with both men scanning their surroundings for any sign of trouble.

"Isn't it _more_ suspicious to stand so close as we go?" Phaedra asked as they maneuvered around Muggle tourists and lacemakers. She had relaxed considerably since they'd left Hallerbos, with far more juvenile questions and observations at the ready compared to her friend and her chaperone.

Harry snorted. "If you think our pursuers might pay less attention to a young lady alone, we can always let you go first."

"Er, no thank you! This is just fine."

Chuckling, he almost moved to ruffle the crown of her head—but her wispy blonde hair was already in such disarray from the journey that he felt bad messing it up anymore. At least _his_ style was inflexible and inevitable; hers might actually be bothering her. Girls could be sensitive like that.

_There's also the fact that you haven't even known each other a day._

And yet, and yet—Phaedra was surprisingly easy to talk to for an underaged witch. It might be because Harry wasn't famous here, so she wasn't wasting time and energy trying to impress him—nothing like the young women who made present-day Diagon Alley a nightmare. It might be because Phaedra had this _look_ to her even when she was upbeat—this delicate, _please-protect-me_ posture that was a knockout punch to people like him. She didn't act or speak as _oddly_ as Luna sometimes did, but both Lovegoods shared a whimsical spirit, an eerie sort of foresight, and a compassionate streak that Harry found appealing.

It was kind of like having a kid sister. Or what he imagined that would be like, at least.

Dumbledore's familiar baritone nudged him out of his thoughts. "We turn left here."

This street was full of houses of varying heights: some squatted with modest gray roofs and others blushed reddish-brown and reached confidently for the sky. Harry checked doors and windows cautiously for curious eyes, but Dumbledore strode even more confidently down this street than he had the others; his lengthened stride had the younger two almost running to keep up. Both sensed they must be close to their destination and didn't bother with any more banter. Sure enough, his buckled boots did a quick swivel at the gate of a red-roofed house and, with the lightest tap of his wand and answering spark of magic, continued into the accompanying front garden.

Harry made sure Phaedra was in front of him as they followed. As they walked up the lane, a flicker of violet blue caught his eye—and he felt a little jolt as he recognized a cluster of bluebell flowers like the ones in Hallerbos Forest.

_These things must be popular_.

Dumbledore nodded at his companions when they caught up to him. "Étienne may still be asleep, but Amélie likely is not," he explained brightly, before knocking smartly at the door.

There was a sound like a car backfiring somewhere inside. Phaedra yelped, then hastily covered her mouth.

"Not to worry. That's perfectly normal."

Harry stared at him for a very long minute.

Another _thump_ sounded closer to the door, followed by a curse not muffled well. Then the lock clicked, and a short older man with slicked-back brown hair and a mint-green dressing gown huffed and puffed as he finally opened up.

_"Oui, puis-je vous aider_—ah! _Albus?"_

_"Bonjour_, Étienne," Dumbledore replied merrily—and _yes_, _there_ was the customary twinkle in his eyes. He leaned forward and exchanged two brief cheek-kisses with his friend that made Harry cough and blush. "My apologies for dropping in on you unannounced—but I found myself in the area quite unexpectedly."

"Of course, why wouldn't you visit then? It has been too long—at least five years, _mon ami_—but come, come in! The morning air here is brisk."

"I would be delighted, but in the interest of not being horribly rude I must first introduce my companions. I traveled quite far to retrieve them, you see, and it would be a shame to lose them to the cold."

Étienne turned then to Harry and Phaedra with open interest written on every line in his face.

"_Mes excuses_—" Clearing his throat, he switched fully to melodious, accented English. "I did not see you there! Please forgive me my blindness, I'm an old man now."

"Hardly," Dumbledore demurred. "Étienne, I'm pleased to introduce Miss Phaedra Lovegood, one of my best NEWT students at Hogwarts, and Mr. Harry Evans, her new friend and my new acquaintance. Miss Lovegood, Mr. Evans, this is Étienne du Pont, one of the finest alchemists in France."

"_Northern_ France, perhaps!"

Humility made Étienne du Pont look even friendlier. He was quick to offer his hand to Phaedra, who had ducked her head and curtsied politely, and gently brush his lips against the top of her offered hand. Harry spotted a few silver lines in his hair that belied the youth still in his face and movements. "Charmed, _ma chérie_. It isn't every day that Albus introduces me to one of his bright youngsters. I am sure you are a credit to your school and your family."

Phaedra blushed scarlet. "T-Thank you, sir."

Étienne hummed agreeably as he turned his head—and the sound didn't waver when Harry stepped forward to be appraised. "Ah, and what have we here? You have an air of power and mystery about you, _monsieur_."

"Er... thank you, sir?"

Fortunately his befuddlement wasn't taken rudely; the alchemist just chortled as he offered his hand again, this time to firmly shake Harry's. "A pleasure to meet you as well. I look forward to getting to know you faster than Albus does."

This time it was Dumbledore who coughed.

"Well! Now that I know everyone on my doorstep this morning, it is only right that I hurry you in. Come along, Albus and guests!" And so saying, Étienne moved backward into his home and gestured for them to follow him to the sitting room. Cheerfully he added, "Amélie is the morning person—she will be thrilled to have guests for breakfast."

_Thrilled_ was a mild word for Amélie du Pont's reaction to feeding five people instead of two.

Étienne's wife was an austere-looking witch who was really quite amiable. She had close-cropped black hair streaked with gray and thin birdlike fingers that fluttered a mile a minute as she spoke and worked, moving almost faster than her mind and tongue. Between kissing her hand in greeting and accepting a seat at her table, Harry learned that she was her husband's partner in more than just the romantic sense: spell refinement, household charms and alchemical research alike flourished under her hands and his.

It was also she who was responsible for the flowers in the front garden, which they learned as they sat comfortably in the sitting room with two mugs of hot cocoa (Phaedra's and Dumbledore's), one cup of coffee (Harry's), and five sets of dishes with croissants and pains aux raisins.

"They are my specialty," she explained with an accent lighter than her husband's, gesturing to the raisin bread around the table and then to the faint splash of blue visible through the curtained windows. "As growing the bluebells is. Do you like them, _Monsieur_ Evans?"

"Oh—" Harry jerked his head away from staring at them and focused back on their hostess. His cheeks flushed at the indulgence in her gaze. "Sorry, I didn't mean to drift... yes, they're very nice."

"_Merci._ I am glad you visited while they are blooming. They are a source of pride for me—such fine, humble things."

Phaedra piped up hesitantly. "Erm, _Madame_ du Pont... is it all right if I have another...?"

"But of course, my dear. Eat what you can, there is plenty."

Phaedra looked significantly less awkward as she obeyed, daintily selecting one more croissant. It occurred to Harry then that she probably hadn't had anything to eat since escaping Grindelwald's clutches—and who knew how often that madman fed the children he kept locked up in his 'school'?

Just the _thought_ of starving made him shiver and peel off a tinier bit of his own pain aux raisin to savor.

"You are a busy man, Albus," Étienne said before the quiet could become entrenched. "And we enjoy your visits immensely, but they are seldom without purpose. What brings you to our corner of the world?"

Dumbledore splayed one long-fingered hand out over his knee and fixed his two friends with a meaningful look that spoke as he did. "You are perceptive as ever... yes, I came here to retrieve Miss Lovegood, who had been taken against her will from home over the Christmas holiday."

_"Taken?"_ Amélie gasped.

"Yes, by associates of Gellert Grindelwald. I wonder if you've heard of him...?"

Étienne hummed tunelessly behind his cup of tea. "We have not heard much," he said after another short silence, "but what we _have_ heard has not been good. Coercion, theft, murder..."

"...and kidnapping, among other crimes." Dumbledore's blue eyes were dull and serious. "Miss Lovegood is one of his many victims. Now that I have retrieved her, with the significant and skilled help of this young man, I intend to escort her safely back to Hogwarts."

He gestured to Harry as he complimented him, but Harry's head had just started swimming and he didn't absorb the kindness. He was too focused on exactly _what_ Dumbledore had just said. One of _many?_

_How many... just _how many_ children are..._

"You may count on our help," Étienne promised immediately; if it hadn't been Albus Dumbledore he was speaking to, Harry would've been floored at how swiftly the alchemist got on board with their quest. "We will see you all safely back to England."

Amélie flicked her short wand and a bit of parchment danced over with a floating quill. "What do you need from us?" she asked.

"A place to rest came to mind first. Do you still have guest rooms...?"

"_Naturellement_. They are yours for the day and night. You plan to set out at first light tomorrow, then? No sooner?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Professor Dumbledore thinks, and I agree, that we may have pursuers—and if we do, they may try and board the earliest forms of transport from here to England to try and head us off. Even now they might be on the ferries, or lying in wait at the train station."

Phaedra looked sharply between them, alarmed and clearly out of the loop; but the du Pont couple both nodded sagely.

"So you will give them time to _not_ find you there, in the hopes that they will seek you elsewhere. Yes, quite clever. But one day may not be enough. Once dawn breaks tomorrow..."

Dumbledore glanced at his companions and back. "Which brings me to the second necessary part of my plan: before this evening we must borrow or purchase clothing more suitable for quietly blending in and boarding the 8:15 train. Mr. Evans and myself should be fine with glamours, but I believe Miss Lovegood was able to escape with only the clothes on her back—yes?" He turned to Phaedra and she nodded; he went on at once. "A change of clothes would be welcome. And we all could benefit from your suggestions on whether magical or non-magical wear would be most appropriate."

"Non-magical," Amélie decided at once. She reached out and smoothed down the girl's hair like a mother would, so that it framed her face and made her look even younger. The parchment next to her inched toward the ceiling and the quill scribbled away. "I can shrink a set of my standard robes for her just in case, but she will draw less attention from questing wizards if she is in _non-magique_ wear. And a _black_ traveling cloak."

Her eyes slid deliberately over the gray cloaks Dumbledore had conjured for them earlier. To Harry's surprise, the Professor went a faint pink at the neck and murmured something about them being "mostly quite inconspicuous".

"Albus, really. You are too well-versed in fashion not to know that every witch and wizard you three passed in those likely admired how well the shade went with your hair."

Harry snorted into his cup. He didn't even regret the slip when Dumbledore gave him a long look once their eyes met again—it was too obvious that the man was embarrassed and not hostile or upset.

And anyway, the cloak _had_ looked especially nice with his hair.

Leaving his cup idle on the table, Étienne clapped his hands together excitedly. "So! We are set then: you three will do your shopping, rest here, and finish your journey tomorrow. I will assist you in searching Calais for any sign of your pursuers—"

He cut off with an abrupt yelp; his wife had pinched his thigh.

"_You_ will finish getting properly ready for the day," she admonished. "And _I_ will ask my contacts to inform Albus or us if they spot anyone out of place. I will not have the neighbors' tongues wagging because you woke up half an hour past and sailed out the door in little more than your dressing gown."

Phaedra stared at them in amazement. "_Madame_, I beg your pardon... but I thought it was _his_ cauldron we heard exploding at the door...?"

Amélie favored her with a lengthy, delighted laugh.

"Oh, no," she eventually managed to say. "That was mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Oui, puis-je vous aider:_** Yes, can I help you?
> 
> **_Bonjour, mon ami:_** Hello, my friend
> 
> **_mes excuses:_** my apologies
> 
> **_ma chérie:_** my dear/my darling
> 
> **_monsieur/madame:_** Sir or Mr./Madam or Mrs.
> 
> **_merci:_** thank you
> 
> **_naturellement:_** naturally, of course
> 
> **_non-magique:_** the preferred French phrase for non-magical people (versus 'Muggles' for English people), according to the HP Wiki
> 
> Thank you all again for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos and bookmarks and other imprints during this stressful time. The train is back on track for a while, and will pull into the station with Chapter 9 on Friday, August 21.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to your south you'll see what is (hopefully) the only chapter written from scratch with no outline. Enjoy!

_3 September 2004_

_Department of Mysteries, Sub-Department of Corrective Measures_

_London, United Kingdom_

"The first thing you need to know is that the flow of time is not rigid, nor is it impenetrable."

The sound of collective confusion greeted Director Robards' words. On the surface, they seemed obvious enough—for how could something as small and simple as Time-Turners exist if Time would not bend or part to accommodate them?—but the nature of their jobs also made the statement baffling.

Sitting at the second table, Harry wondered: _is this going to be a rehash of the Orientation Speech?_

Valeria did not wait for any of her six newest silver-robed Correctors to ask questions or scoff; she charged ahead, wand and notes at the ready.

"I'm sure you all think I'm talking about Time-Turners or Temporal Slicers. I am not; I am speaking of the act of going back in time itself. Or rather, the fallout which occurs _every single time_ a Corrector or a standard time-traveler moves from one point in time to another."

Hermione's hand shot up in the air; reflexively Harry flinched, so used to being clipped by her enthusiastic hand-flapping at Hogwarts that he almost forgot that they were adults now, and that she was at another table entirely. But sure enough—a glance to his left (over Neville's shoulders) showed him exactly the sight he was used to: his academic friend leaning as far forward as she could, either missing or ignoring the amused look from her own seat partner, Su Li.

"Excuse me, Director... but I don't understand your emphasis of fallout coming from _all_ instances of time travel. Isn't this role meant to preserve the timeline in its original form as much as possible _without_ consequences?"

There was a barely audible sigh from Harry's right. It took everything he had to glance over and confirm the owner: Ron, of course, sitting stiffly at the third table with Blaise Zabini. It had been a year since he and Hermione had broken up and he was still not taking it well. Currently, that meant sulking around the Ministry or the Burrow, and scoffing at everything his ex-girlfriend said or did.

Harry felt the familiar pang in his gut that came from years of distance from his other best friend—but without sitting next to him, there was nothing he could say or do to try and soften Ron up toward Hermione. And after his own temporary excommunication from most of the Weasley family following his breakup with Ginny, he wasn't feeling as charitable toward Ron's hurt feelings as he might have otherwise.

_There's also the fact that I'm not keen on making an enemy out of him _or_ Hermione right now by picking a side_.

No. Best he remained neutral, and let them sort out their latest cold war on their own.

While he was distracted by his fractured friendships, Valeria Robards had tapped her wand against the chalkboard at the front of the room. A piece of chalk lifted itself and wrote Hermione's question verbatim in flowing cursive.

"To answer your question, Miss Granger," she said when the chalk was nearly finished writing out the 's' of _consequences_, "yes, Correctors are primarily tasked with preserving the timeline as it's meant to be, rather than as we (or others) might like it to be. But Time is not something that can be molded so completely. There are breaches. Fissures. _Missteps_."

The rest of the room swallowed at the heavy emphasis she laid on that word.

"Sometimes, these little hiccups in Time can be smoothed over—maybe they create minor edits in a History of Magic textbook, or give someone in the past an extra scar they happen to never mention. But sometimes enough changes occur when a Time-Turner or Temporal Slicer is active in the past to almost—_almost_—create a new timeline."

Su Li gasped. "You mean another _dimension_? One nearly identical to the first?"

"Yes, Miss Li. Though no split actually occurs."

"And you're saying even these changes must be prevented?"

"_No_," Valeria stressed, and frowned even more when everyone in the room gave her a baffled double-take. "Did you not listen to what I said? _The flow of time is not rigid_. So long as we have the ability to move backward and make changes, there will always be slight imperfections in the alpha timeline once we have returned to the present. The greatest ones must be prevented or corrected, _yes_—but not every change that occurs is bad or in need of repair."

Blaise Zabini was next to raise his hand.

"So what you're saying is: sometimes, we as Correctors may run across things, or _cause_ things, that create near-splits, but they aren't actually a problem. All right—but how are we meant to know what's benign and what's not?"

Ron mouthed _benign? _on the other side of Zabini and Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Neville did too, once Harry had nudged him and pointed it out.

"Ah... now _there_ is the question, Mr. Zabini. How _can_ you tell what's insignificant and what's not? Well—we'll get to that. But an important tangent first.

"I monitor every single Corrector that is on a mission, so some seemingly-small changes will be caught by me before they can become too drastic. But if the branch is harmless, I leave it alone. Can any of you guess how that might manifest in the present?"

Most of the people in the room didn't have the right background to properly answer that question: of the two that did, one was at a loss to remember what the answer was _called_. That meant it fell to Hermione once again to break the silence.

"The Mandela effect!"

"The _what_?" four other voices chorused. As he hurried to (beat Hermione and) explain, Harry realized he had seldom felt more positive about being Muggle-raised.

"It's this concept about people remembering events or things that never actually happened. For example—thinking someone famous has died when they're actually still alive, or misremembering a popular quote from someone, or even adding extra words to a song."

Su Li let out a very loud _oh!_ and hurried to add: "That's so interesting! Witches and wizards have false memories like that too, of course, but as far as I knew we've never had a single proper name for it. But what does this Mandela have to do with it?"

"Well, it's called that because there's this Muggle revolutionary leader named Nelson Mandela whom a lot of other Muggles thought was dead—and had died years ago—even though he's very much alive today. But there's loads of other events in history like that too."

He perked up a little at Director Robards' open, approving nod, before realization of just _what_ he'd said hit him like a Bludger. "Wait a moment. You mean all those times that people (magical _and_ non-magical) thought they experienced movies with different names, or people dying before their time, have just been because Correctors like us were _messing with the timeline?"_

"Precisely," she affirmed. "Though not only Correctors. The truth is that some Muggles and wizards out there _do_ experience what their minds so firmly hold on to, even when pitted against dissenting voices and refolds in Time. This is because their experiences on that brief alternate timeline affected them so strongly, or so personally, that the effects are branded on their souls." Her eyebrows lifted meaningfully. "Incidentally, these people are slightly more resistant to Memory Charms."

Harry and Neville exchanged glances.

"Time is inexorable, and only meant to move forward. When there's movement backwards—when an unauthorized person uses a Time Turner, when magic backfires and sends someone thirty years away by accident, when Correctors accept missions and travel through a specific slice in the timeline—then Time creates folds. The Department of Mysteries calls this _layering_—because like someone _adding ingredients to a sandwich during my briefing_, the timeline is allowing all the alterations to overlap and stack until fixing the error in the true path straightens out all the rest."

That middle part was directed viciously in Ron's direction—somehow without anyone noticing at first, he'd Summoned a sandwich from somewhere to snack on during the briefing. Director Robards had caught him just as he was slipping in strips of bacon; when he met her fierce glare, he blushed and ruefully Banished the sandwich back whence it came.

Harry was proud of Hermione for not rolling her eyes or making a single sound of disapproval. It was clear from her face that she desperately wanted to.

Director Robards tapped the chalkboard again; the chalk, which had been lagging, now hurried to finish transcribing the rest of what she'd said. The fledgling Correctors took a moment to do the same with quills and parchment; though note-taking was only encouraged and not required, there were often lessons like this where their superior left them with a lot to mentally unpack. The chalk underlined one section in particular, and she started at the reminder.

"Ah, yes. Please note that I said this Layering happens _any_ time there's ripples in Time that don't belong. That includes meeting people you shouldn't meet, having children you shouldn't have with people who died before you were born, killing people who are meant to live, and saving people who are meant to die. It doesn't matter if these ripples happen intentionally or not. There are strict rules to time-traveling and making changes for this very reason: because when there are too many layers, when mistakes are made, the people that made them tend to stop existing."

A brief shudder traveled through all six young adults.

"With that point hammered in, let's cycle back to Mr. Zabini's question. _How do we know which splits in the timeline are benign, and which aren't?_ The answer is: at first, you don't."

"_What?!"_ Harry yelped, along with everyone else.

"Calm down," Director Robards chided. And she stood stiff and impatient until they finished talking over one another and obeyed. "I said that I monitor you, but even that's not necessary to identify an alteration in the timeline. For non-magical people, the only answer to the differences in memory is the phenomenon Mr. Potter mentioned—the Mandela effect.

"But magic introduces complications. It manifests differently in different people, but the symptoms of shifting Time tend to be similar in nature. Perhaps you come across a textbook with a few added lines of ingredients added to a certain witch's famous Follicle-Strengthening Potion, or you receive a letter from a relative that (as far as you recall) never existed before you got their owl. Sometimes a group of Aurors comes down to our department suddenly, swearing up and down that they need evidence from us to solve Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel's four-year-old murder case—even though everyone in our world knows they died peacefully in their beds twelve years ago.

"As the changes get larger, more threatening to the whole timeline, the differences become more stark—as does the likelihood that the incorrect events will permanently overwrite the correct ones. As I told each of you the day we met, I recruited you for this role because you are some of the few people in the world who are sensitive to these changes as they happen: instead of believing one thing one minute and the opposite thing in the next, there is a moment for you where both layers exist simultaneously. That means you are more sensitive to disturbances in time, more likely to be negatively affected by them; but it also means that you have more power to fix what's gone wrong."

It was Ron who broke in with the question they were all secretly asking. "What good is having the power to fix things if we don't know what to fix and what to let alone?"

The Director didn't answer at first. She Summoned a solid black box from the next room, looking mildly amused when they all ducked as it zoomed in. It landed gently on her desk, but she only addressed the room again after giving it a once-over. "When you're in a time where you don't belong, Mr. Weasley, you will _know_ if you've made a change that's unacceptable. Small ripples will straighten themselves out as long as you do what I've taught you to do before you come home—but the larger things? Taking important people out of the timeline, or making yourselves too noticeable? You will know what you've done—even if I have to come and let you know myself."

This time, Harry was watching the way the shudder traveled around the room: quick, and quivering like a living thing.

He did, though, miss the slightly softer look Valeria Robards gave all of them as she noticed their obvious agitation. Her posture relaxed, and she spoke more kindly as she rummaged through the box for what she sought.

"Stow your fear. I have faith in all of you; you are more than qualified for this role. Just remember: Time is malleable, but it _has_ a form. You are meant to preserve the original mold. When you go to other times, keep your distance from others—focus on your mission—and when you've succeeded, get back home as quickly as you can. It's simple and straightforward. Soon, it will come second nature."

She broke off looking for a moment to call for assistance, which came in the form of a tall beauty with high bronze cheekbones and dark curly hair. Harry vaguely remembered that her name was Priyanka, and she was a senior Corrector in the Department—and an expert in Ancient Runes and wandless detection spells. One quick finger swish later and Priyanka had found what Valeria sought; she offered her boss a nod, the seated junior Correctors a wave, and went back to her work. The Director levitated her prizes out without further delay: six multicolored glass spheres with spinning gold bands. A hum of magical energy lifted the hairs on the back of Harry's neck as he recognized them from the drawings in the Department scrolls.

_Temporal Slicers_.

No one said a word. It was likely that the others were just as apprehensive as he was.

Director Robards twirled her wand in a circle and the little spheres shot out in six different directions. Su and Blaise received the amber and maroon ones, respectively; Neville reached out instinctively to catch the teal one; and Ron and Hermione experienced both disbelief and satisfaction when they got pink and green.

Harry felt electricity arc through him as he caught and cradled the last Temporal Slicer in his hands. He stared into the pale blue glass, ran a finger across the bands, and felt as though a previously-unnoticed lock inside of him had clicked into place.

_Whoa._

"We can have them?" Neville breathed. "They're keyed to us now?"

"Indeed they are, Mr. Longbottom; we finished them this morning. But they're a bit unstable; I'd recommend not activating them just yet."

Neville's fingers twitched like he wanted to immediately put his Slicer away, and only barely refrained. Harry shot him a reassuring grin before refocusing on his own sphere. It had been cool to the touch at first, but warmed up rapidly the longer he touched it. He noticed for the first time that there was sand in the middle, like one would find in an hourglass—except this sand was silver instead of light brown.

_Bloody hell._

"You're dismissed for today," their superior declared. "Get to know your new toy. A few more lessons, and you'll be ready to use it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barring any sudden idiotic decisions from government executives, Chapter 10 will be posted on Friday, September 4.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to me~! Here, have at this while I quarantine with as many games as humanly possible.

_11 April 1925_

_82 Rue Voltaire_

_Calais, France_

The du Ponts were kind enough to allow them each a chance to bathe before they set off to the shops of Magical Calais—which was fortunate since Phaedra, rather petulantly, refused to set a toe outside before she had cleaned the grime of the carriage, the forest, and a score of Dark wizard instructors away.

For his part, Harry hadn't expected the opportunity to get clean again this _soon_. Even during some of his longer stays in the past he had often been forced to rough it for a week or two before he gained access to a bath. Though it was undoubtedly satisfying, he also felt a little antsy as he stripped down, spelled his traveling clothes temporarily invisible and scrubbed himself.

At least the soap smelled as outdoorsy as the rustic scents he personally preferred.

Étienne had mentioned having a change of clothes ready in each of the guest rooms once they were done in the bathroom—so Harry reapplied his concealer, tucked his own clothes under his arm, tightened the towel at his hips and gave his hair only a brief pass under his other towel as he stepped out en route to wherever he'd be sleeping tonight. He wasn't paying much attention to where he was going, which probably explained why he nearly bumped into Dumbledore in the hall.

"Oh, sorry—"

"Oh no, I... beg your pardon," Dumbledore managed. He had frozen and was staring at Harry with a strange expression on his face.

_It must be all the scars_, Harry thought; there were only a few cuts and spellfire marks on his chest and back, but he knew from past romantic dalliances that they tended to draw the eye until one got used to them. Or maybe he was being rude again, standing in a house he didn't live in with only a towel on.

Aloud he rushed to clarify. "It, er, took me a little longer to find the other guest bathroom so I've only just finished up in there. I hope I didn't keep you and Phaedra waiting."

Dumbledore kept staring. Harry was very aware of the older man's deep blue eyes darting over him, head to toe, without any clear indication of what was wrong. _And is that a bit of red on his neck?_

_Eh. Probably an allergy, or some of his hair._

"...I'll be ready in a few minutes?" he tried next.

That seemed to snap the professor out of his daze. "That's perfectly fine," he murmured at last, standing up a little straighter. For the first time, Harry noticed that he was still in his fine plum robes. "Once I've availed myself of the bathroom as well, I believe I can say the same."

"Er, great! Well take your time—not that you _need_ to, I only mean... the water's really warm. Very comfortable."

_Potter, you idiot._

"My friends do like their comfort. That and their altruism brought them to my mind first when we arrived."

"Well... thank you then. For thinking of them."

Harry felt simultaneously too awkward to stop talking and too awkward to speak. He kept his outward expression bemused but friendly, but inwardly he racked his brain for whatever social faux pas he might have committed that Dumbledore was too polite to call him out on. _Should I have brought my change of clothes with me? Did I mess up by mentioning Phaedra while half-dressed? Have I forgotten something?!_

"...You've bathed, but your hair isn't... tamed," Dumbledore said softly.

_Oh. Er...?_

Harry almost said _of course not, sir, why would it be?_—then he remembered where he was, and _when_ he was, and cut the words off just in time. "Oh, this?" he offered, and tugged casually at the perpetually-unruly mess of it, damp but undaunted. "It never lies flat. Better combs and potions have tried and failed. Just part and parcel of being me, Professor."

"Ah."

There was another awkward pause. A few errant drops of water rippled down Harry's chest, tickling him—he bowed his head and rubbed them instinctively away, missing Dumbledore's quiet intake of breath. It was starting to get cold in the hallway with nothing on, and it would have been nice to make it to his room to dress, but... well... the hallway was also very small. One person in the pathway was enough to create traffic.

"I just need to—do you mind—?"

"Oh—of course, let me just—"

They danced ineffectually around each other for a second before Dumbledore finally stepped aside in the opposite direction, allowing Harry to slip past and into the guest room a few steps beyond. He exhaled softly the moment the door had twisted closed behind him.

_Note to self: don't let Dumbledore see any of your scars. They seem to kind of freak him out_.

"_Please_ can I have a hat?" Phaedra begged.

The shop she wanted to enter, _La Rive_, twinkled invitingly at the three of them in green and gold. Three fetching designs hovered in the window on neckless head mannequins: rust-red, powder blue and canary yellow. Harry could just spot fine robes hanging behind them.

Next to her, Dumbledore put out one hand to keep her from darting forward. "Non-magical only, my dear," he reminded her. "Or as close to it as possible. You're welcome to peruse the place with us, but we will only be buying if they have what you need."

She was off like a shot almost before he'd finished speaking: a spot of blonde and black robes darting through the crowd, animated but unremarkable to passersby. Though she had withheld her excitement for most of their walk through the magical part of town (for fear of drawing hostile eyes), seeing this new collection of shops had apparently been too much to take silently. Her only pause was to call faintly over her shoulder: "Thank you, sir!"

Harry laughed.

His former headmaster turned to him then, and gestured helplessly in Phaedra's direction. "Her newfound enthusiasm is comforting, but she should not be on her own for any period," he said.

"Do you want me to go in there and try on ladies' hats with her?"

"I wouldn't want to impose on you." That amused light was back in Dumbledore's eyes. "And I've been told I wear ladies' hats with uncommon grace."

"By a flatterer," Harry quipped, and was satisfied at the chuckle he received in response. "But seriously—I don't mind looking after her."

"Thank you. I shall join you shortly, but I think now might be a good time to ascertain if our suspicions have merit."

_Right_. Here in the thick of the crowd, in the morning rush, it would be much easier to notice anyone tailing them or paying them undue attention—and then hopefully lose them.

Harry watched Dumbledore twirl his wand, murmur something to himself and disappear on the spot—nearly. The faint shimmer that denoted Disillusionment appeared around him, reducing him to a mirror of the bustling crowd. He took the opportunity to stride into _La Rive_, and only relaxed when he was quite sure the shop door had shut behind him.

Spending half a day with Albus Dumbledore had only taught him that he was _not_ ready to spend too much time with Albus Dumbledore alone. Not yet. Not without Phaedra as a barrier between them. And not after everything that had come before.

_No matter how great it is to see him alive..._

Harry shook his head, and shifted his thoughts to looking for Phaedra. _Focus_.

Ravenclaws tended to converge around knowledge, and a quick scan of the store showed him that Phaedra was no exception—though the alluring hats had drawn her in, she had quickly become distracted by a set of Everstride Boots sitting tall and shiny in a glass case.

"Harry!" she exclaimed when she spotted him at her shoulder. "I mean, Mr. Evans—look, look! They say these are the _exact_ seven-league boots which belonged to Merlin himself! The ones he used to part the waves and circumnavigate the whole island on King Arthur's behalf! Do you know how many expeditions have been started just to try and _find_ these!?"

"No idea," he replied cheerfully. "And 'Harry' is fine, really. Unless you want me to start calling you Miss Lovegood. Which is fine, I will if you want me to—"

Phaedra wrinkled her nose again, which kind of spoke for itself.

"They have robes here dating back to the Renaissance period too," she added, "and _lots_ of robes with lace. Apparently it's a big part of the Muggles' industry here."

"Speaking of Muggles..." He gave her a meaningful look, which she didn't interpret correctly at first.

"Hmm...? There aren't any in here."

"No, but if their style of clothes aren't, then _we_ shouldn't be in here either."

She let out a long sigh. "I don't have much experience with non-magical clothes, Harry. I was born into an all-magic family and the village I live in is miles away from anyone who isn't a witch or wizard. How will I know what to pick?"

"That's what I'm for, isn't it?" Harry glanced at the price tags gleaming on the neck of the hanging robes and winced. It was no hard decision at all to gently lead Phaedra away by her shoulder. "Come on—let's go somewhere a little more comfortable."

_And cheaper. 1925 Harry is not rich._

They were lucky: the shop next door was owned by the same witch responsible for _La Rive_, but had a respectable selection of skirts and tops. There was absolutely _nothing_ that looked familiar to Harry outside of old textbooks he'd barely perused before his trip here, but at least Phaedra seemed to be happy with the amount of choices, colors, and styles. He busied himself with finding hats that would go all right with whatever she picked, smiling at how intent the girl became during her search. Luna cared so little for being 'stylish', seemed in fact to dress _counter_ to what anyone might expect—it was interesting seeing her ancestor do the opposite.

"Not too confusing for you?"

"Mm-mm. These are really very nice."

"Muggles _will_ surprise you," Harry teased, and willingly accepted the mock glare she leveled at him afterward. _Not too well acquainted with non-magical people, but at least she doesn't seem like a purist._ There were still a couple more decades before blood purity and pureblood supremacy became all the rage in Magical Britain, but it was nice to know that it hadn't developed in a vacuum... _or_ a Petri dish.

Her voice came back several minutes later. "What about this?"

He looked up and hummed. She had picked a cream sweater and skirt of three-quarters length—it was modest, and she'd blend in well in crowds. The pale yellow cloche near his elbow suited the outfit, so he picked it up too. "Looks nice. Let's buy it before some stuffy old witch comes in and grabs it to reclaim her youth."

"Don't be so crude!"

"Come now, I'm less fun if I do that."

The young witch running the shop seemed absolutely _delighted_ to serve them—Harry wasn't sure if it was because business was typically bleak at this time of day or if it had something to do with _him_ being present with Phaedra at the counter. She _was_ definitely blushing and making the most eye contact with him as she asked how they'd found everything in halting English, but she also had a look on her face first that reminded Harry of the one Dumbledore'd had in the du Ponts' hallway earlier. He wasn't sure how to unpack that and Phaedra didn't give him much time; he almost didn't catch her before she put money down for her new clothes.

"Hey now, none of that."

Phaedra made a confused sound. "It's twelve Galleons."

"And I've got it." Before she could protest, he slipped the money out of his robe pocket and handed it to the other young witch. "_Merci_," he added, and couldn't help but grin at how high her blush climbed on her face.

_Yeah_—_she _definitely_ fancies me. You may be fresh off a break-up, Potter, but at least you can still turn heads._

But the sudden reminder of said break-up, and Neville, killed any interest he'd briefly had in flirting properly.

"Harry..." Phaedra breathed.

"Come on, let's go."

He put his arm around her shoulders again, escorting her and her bag out of the shop gently but firmly. They ended up across the street on a quiet bench, comfortably out of the way of the growing crowd.

Phaedra didn't say anything at first. She'd let him maneuver her to the bench, set her stuff down beside her and look not-so-casually around for enemies without even a noise of protest—but finally, finally, her voice found its way back to her. "You didn't have to do that."

"Sure I did." It was, in fact, the _least_ he could have done for her after everything he'd put her through.

"No—it was kind of you, and I _am_ grateful to you for it, but it was not necessary."

"Why don't we just agree to disagree? You didn't want me to buy your things, I _did_ want to, and I moved faster in the end."

Phaedra bit her lip and looked down. Although she eventually nodded and hugged the bag to her chest, she didn't look nearly as cheerful as she had at the start of the afternoon, or even stepping out of the Ravenclaw-colored Cinderella carriage this morning.

Harry let the silence sit for about as long as he could stand it—which was three minutes—before turning toward her. "What's wrong? Is it about me paying for the clothes?"

"No, I just..."

"Because you can pay me back, if you want. I'd _really_ prefer it if you didn't, but—"

She shook her head. "What I am feeling... does not make sense."

"Try me," he offered.

"Okay..."

He tilted his head, encouraging her.

"I hardly know you, Harry, but I... I feel like we're friends. Or that we _could_ be friends. But friends are supposed to be equals, aren't they? Able to contribute the same things to the friendship?"

"...Not necessarily," Harry murmured, while thinking _that's an oddly analytical view of making friends_.

"Well, I see it that way. Shared interests and equal contributions. I feel nearly as comfortable with you as I do with my school friends—but with them, I've never had to worry about taking and never giving back."

"...so this _is_ about the clothes?"

"No! Well—not entirely—"

Harry cut her off mid-stammer in the interest of being polite. She'd given him more than enough pieces to solve the puzzle. "You feel like you're not 'contributing' to our friendship because I happened to save your life, reunite you with your teacher and buy you necessities in less than a day."

Phaedra's blue eyes stabbed at him, watering as she met his gaze. "You've done so much for me, and in such a short time! And, and you're so _nice_ about it—as though it truly isn't a big deal for you to help me. What have I done for you that measures up?"

"Quit it," he ordered at once. He felt sick, like his guts were squirming in his belly. "Don't say that to me ever again, understand?"

"But—"

"Phaedra. I'm happy you see me as someone you could befriend. I see you the same way, and I'm not keeping tabs on what I've done for you, or you for me. That's not what I look for in my friends."

"But—I feel so useless. Lord Grindelwald could have killed us in that forest... I wasn't strong enough to face him."

"Neither was I," Harry pointed out. "But we're still here, aren't we? And we wouldn't be if it weren't for you."

"For _me_?"

He put one hand on her shoulder and squeezed, willing her to believe him now more than ever. "Have you already forgotten how brave I said you were? You stood up to him just like I did. You _dueled_ him long enough for me to make it back to you after he tried to drown me. Grindelwald had to break your wand arm to keep you from saving yourself. Just because you might not know as many spells or tricks as me doesn't mean you aren't strong."

Phaedra sniffed and wiped at her eyes.

It was Harry's turn to look away from her, and speak more quietly than before. "Anyway... if anyone in this friendship hasn't measured up, it's me. I owe you an apology."

"What... what do you mean? For what?"

"I think you know. That last moment with him in Hallerbos..."

Harry remembered it vividly. From the way Phaedra stiffened under his hand, he knew she recalled it too: the eerie stillness of the forest, with the earth torn up, damp or scorched black from magical fire; the dangerous viper of a man crouched in front of them with one arm outstretched, smirking triumphantly as he waited for Harry to give him everything he'd asked for. In the infinite bit of time between Grindelwald's first offer of a truce and Harry finally blasting him off his feet, there had been a smaller infinity where he'd had to pretend to consider surrendering—and he could still hear Phaedra whimpering in his head, lying just behind him, too injured to defend herself from a turncoat on top of everything else.

_No. No, please_.

"The only way to get past a man like Grindelwald is to take him by surprise," he continued, once he knew he had her attention. "That was my strategy the entire night: to distract him while I cleared our path to escape, then keep him from doing anything to us we couldn't walk away from. But in all of that, the only person who was an acceptable loss was me. I wasn't _ever_ prepared to sacrifice you, Phaedra."

He turned back around, grasping her other shoulder, turning her gently so they were eye-to-eye again. Into his voice went every shred of sincerity he had, every bit of determination that she would not for a moment misunderstand his actions. He knew too well what it felt like to feel betrayed by someone he trusted—to feel like a rug had been ripped from under him and he had no time to do anything but fall.

_I don't want her to feel that way. Not about this._

"I always intended to trick him. I knew from when you'd cursed him earlier that night that he wasn't as quick with dodging if you hit him up close, and I knew he didn't know about my cloak—that was enough to give me a plan to get us out of there. _Us_, Phaedra. I wasn't ever going to betray you then, and I won't ever betray you now."

"Do you mean that?" Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it.

"I do. I promise I will only ever do what's in your best interest."

Phaedra gave him a long look—probably at the wording—but Harry kept his expression open, honest and serious. And he didn't amend his statement in the slightest. Finally she nodded, accepting what he said and didn't say.

"Okay... I believe you."

It shouldn't have mattered whether she trusted him or not—_he_ knew he meant her no ill will, after all—but it _did_ matter, and Harry relished the feeling of being seen as someone worth trusting and believing in based on his own actions. After spending his whole life being treated one way or the other because he was the Boy Who Lived, it felt freeing to be judged for himself and no one else.

"You _did_ scare me though..." Phaedra added.

"I'm sorry..."

"...but probably not as much as you scared him, afterward. Lord Grindelwald," she explained when Harry looked confused. "When you hit him with the electricity. I have increased insight into people's emotions sometimes—he was shocked, and angry, and a little scared when he realized what happened."

"He shouldn't have hit me with Cruciatus then. Why do you still call him that?"

"Call him what?"

"'Lord' Grindelwald." Harry made sure she could hear the skeptical quotes he put around the appellation. "I gather he must have made you use that while you were at his school..."

She nodded again. "It was either that or 'Headmaster'. Students who didn't use one or the other were... punished."

"With Cruciatus?"

"No, not by him. That wasn't his style."

_Not his style, huh._ Harry worked very hard not to let his body twitch or his eyebrow go up. He was still suffering with phantom pains from Grindelwald's very experienced application of that particular curse. Her words did pique his interest though: if it wasn't _his_ style to jump straight to disciplining students with Dark curses, then who _did_ claim that style?

"I didn't like either term," Phaedra elaborated, playing absently with the handle of her bag, "but I preferred to use the title _he_ used outside the castle walls. It was like an acknowledgment that he was only pretending to run a school. He may be a Headmaster, but he's nothing like Professor Dippet."

The name was quite familiar to Harry, but he feigned a confused hum anyway so she could explain to him all over again about Dumbledore's predecessor. By the time she was done and they'd lapsed into a more comfortable silence, the sun had made it to the top of the sky and they were both starting to sweat.

"What happened to Professor Dumbledore?"

"He's been making sure we weren't followed. Said he'd meet us back here."

"Oh—well at least he's coming back."

Harry shrugged. "He doesn't seem like the type to disappear on us."

"Oh, that reminds me!" Phaedra said excitedly, and reached into the pocket of the robes she'd borrowed from Amélie. Out came something folded, soft and silvery, under which her hands disappeared. "I've been meaning to give this back to you..."

Relief sparked in Harry's gut: she was holding his Invisibility Cloak. He'd almost forgotten giving it to her so she'd be protected as they fled from Grindelwald. The thanks he gave her as he tucked it away was warm and sincere.

"Thank _you_ for letting me borrow it. It's very beautiful, did you have it made...?"

"Nope, inherited it," Harry replied automatically; then his brain clicked back on, and he tried gracefully to backpedal. "As far as I know, anyway. I don't have much from my parents, other than this."

"That is quite a nice inheritance," a deep voice said behind him.

He jumped off the bench with a yelp, pulling his wand and whirling—but it was only Dumbledore, shimmering back into view standing just behind their bench.

"Don't _do_ that!" Harry gasped. "You scared the—"

The professor hummed, interrupting his expletive with a pointed look toward Phaedra (who had instinctively moved behind Harry). "I apologize. My intention was to join you more naturally, but I had to lose a pursuer first."

"So someone _was_ following us, sir?" Phaedra asked. A bit of the old fear made her expression stiff and uncertain again.

"Yes, but he is not your concern. I sent him on his way with a simple Confundus Charm; he shouldn't be found for some time."

_Shite_, Harry lamented, wishing more strongly that he'd left Dumbledore with his student and taken care of Grindelwald's lackey himself. _A Confundus, when an Obliviate would have been cleaner? I hope this doesn't come back to bite._

"So you have an invisibility cloak, Mr. Evans?"

Several more swear words went off in Harry's head, because _of all the people to notice my Cloak, all the people in the country and the timeline and the _world_, why did it have to be Albus Dumbledore?_ "Er... yes. I don't normally carry it around, but luckily I had it on me so Phaedra and I could escape yesterday. Dead useful, you know?"

"A useful inheritance indeed," Dumbledore murmured. There was a curious light in his blue eyes that Harry recognized, and hated.

_Please don't ask me to see it. Please, please don't._ _ You're not meant to make this connection for well over fifty years._

"We finished shopping," Phaedra reported, unintentionally and obliviously breaking their silent staring contest. "Is it safe for us to go back to the du Ponts' home, sir?"

"Ah—yes, I think we have lingered outdoors long enough today. Let us return, and allow our hosts to prepare us for what trials the morning may bring."

It took everything Harry had not to openly sag with relief. _Too close, too close_. He masked his nerves the whole way back by carrying Phaedra's bags for her, teasing her gently when she protested, and generally keeping her between himself and the frighteningly-perceptive man he had to keep traveling with.

The locket didn't scald his chest again until just before bedtime.

Pleasantly warm and full from dinner and comfortable dialogue, Harry hadn't noticed anything amiss at first; he was busy in his guest room, concealing his personal items for the night with Notice-Me-Not charms. It had been roughly forty minutes since Phaedra Lovegood had wished the table goodnight and come upstairs to retire, and twenty since he'd done the same himself, catching only a hint of whispered conversation between Dumbledore, Étienne and Amélie as he climbed the stairs. The heat only caught his attention (as usual) when it persisted to the point of discomfort.

"Ouch, ouch..."

Harry temporarily Banished his shirt to the bed in a fit of pique (after making sure the door was locked), the better to squeeze and stop the irritating bit of metal from giving him a new scar.

"I'm here."

_Hello, Harry. You sound quite sound. Are you safe too?_

He couldn't help his smile. _Luna_. "Yeah, I'm all right."

_That's good. I wanted to speak with you before you continued on your journey. Do you have time?_

"For you? Always."

Luna's satisfaction sent a much more comfortable warmth through the gold oval.

_I went home to speak with Daddy about what you told me before. When I arrived there I had quite the surprise_—_Daddy was there, but__ sitting next to him was someone I had never met before. She introduced herself as my great-great-aunt Phaedra._

Harry sat down very slowly on the floor.

_It's the strangest thing, Harry_. Luna sounded simultaneously curious and sad. _She must have been nearly a hundred years old. She asked about you_—_seemed familiar with you, and not, at the same time. She remembered you rescuing her, but her memories of things that came after is strangely hazy. Her life is disjointed, as though it's been picked apart by Tinglefae and put back together wrong_. _And our memories of her aren't quite settled either._

"...Ah."

_Do you know, it feels like that phenomenon Valeria Robards told us about? The Layering: where the timeline is in flux, and changes overlap until the future is set in stone. I'm not quite sure how I've managed to hold on to both strands. But I do know that when she left, Daddy and I went upstairs to find the family tree. And she _is_ there on 10 April 1925. ...But that's the last time she's meant to be there_.

The words settled on his shoulders, crushing them worse than Muggle weights. He stared blankly out the window into the bluebell-filled front garden, into the bitterly cold night, and couldn't find anything to say for some time. All he could do was keep squeezing the locket, transmitting nothing across eighty-three years and hundreds of miles but silence and sadness.

"...Thank you for telling me," he finally whispered.

_I'm sorry I had to_, Luna said.

But they both knew why she'd done it, and what needed to happen before his mission was over.

"...Yeah," Harry sighed, shutting his eyes. "I'm sorry too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last delay before the end of this part! Thanks as always for your support, and see you back here with a proper date when Chapter 11 is ready.


End file.
